When  Should  a  Girl  Marry? 


DERRINGFORTH 


BY    FRANK    A.    MUNSEY 


VOLUME    ONE 


NEW  YORK 

FRANK  A.  MUNSEY  &  COMPANY 
1894 


COPYRIGHT,  1894,  BY 
FRANK   A.    MUNSEY 


TROW  DIRECTOR* 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


DERRINGFORTH. 


i. 


"You  know  I  love  you,  Phil,  that  I  have  loved 
you  as  you  have  loved  me,  ever  since  we  were  chil- 
dren, but  mama  is  not  willing  that  I  should  become 
engaged  for  at  least  a  year." 

This  was  Marion  Kingsley's  answer  to  Phil  Der- 
ringforth's  proposal. 

The  color  left  his  face. 

' '  Does  your  mother  object  to  me  ?  "  he  asked,  un- 
able to  conceal  his  disappointment. 

"  No,  indeed,  she  thinks  the  world  of  you,  Phil — 
you  should  know  that." 

' '  I  have  always  thought  so,  but  now ' ' 

Phil  hesitated,  and  Marion  did  not  wait  for  him  to 
finish  his  sentence. 

"  You  must  still  think  so,"  she  said.  "  It  would 
break  mama's  heart  to  know  you  doubted  her  loyalty 
to  you." 

' '  Why  does  she  want  us  to  wait,  then  ?  Are  you 
and  I  not  old  enough  to  marry  ?  ' ' 


2037 


"Mama  thinks  not,  and  besides,  she  wants  me  to 
see  something  of  society  as  a  girl. ' ' 

' '  And  you  ?  ' ' 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  love  and  tenderness 
were  in  her  eyes, 

"  Can't  you  see  —  don't  you  know  that  nothing  in 
all  the  world  would  make  me  so  happy  as  to  be  your 
wife  ?  This  love  is  not  new  to  you  and  me,  Phil. 
We  have  been  lovers  all  our  lives,  and  I  have  always 
looked  forward  to  the  end  of  my  school  days,  think- 
ing that  you  and  I  would  then  be  more  to  each  other 
than  ever." 

"  And  now  they  have  ended  we  are  less  to  each 
other,"  returned  Phil. 

"  No,  we  are  not — don't  say  that,  Phil ;  it  is  hard 
enough  for  me  to  yield  to  mama  without  your  making 
it  harder." 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  it  harder  for  you,  lit- 
tle girl.  I  know  you  love  me,  but  I  am  so  disap- 
pointed." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  Phil,  dear — very  sorry 
for  myself,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  You  would  not  have 
me  marry  against  mama's  wishes,  I  am  sure." 

' '  I  would  not  wish  you  to,  and  yet  it  might  be 
best. ' '  There  was  a  touch  of  desperation  in  his  voice. 

"Phil!  " 

"I  know,  but  we  can't  look  into  the  future;  we 
can't  tell  what  changes  a  year  will  make  in  us.  To- 
day we  love  each  other  and  are  suited  to  each  other. 

2 


You  have  been  free  up  to  this  time  from  the  flattery 
of  society,  and  I  have  cared  only  for  you.  How  will 
it  be  at  the  end  of  a  year  ?  ' ' 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  think  that  in  so  short  a 
time  your  love  for  me  would  be  gone,"  said  Marion, 
the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  answered  Phil  tenderly. 
"  I  can't  imagine  that  I  could  ever  cease  to  love  you, 
and  yet  I  have  seen  enough  of  life  already  to  be  con- 
vinced that  the  more  a  man  mingles  with  people,  the 
more  lovable  girls  he  knows,  the  less  is  his  devotion 
to  any  one  of  them.  The  same  thing  is  equally  true 
with  women,  and  what  is  true  of  others  may  be  true 
of  you  and  me,  Marion.  It  is  impossible  for  us  to 
realize  it  as  applied  to  ourselves,  I  know." 

"  But  it  is  different  with  you  and  me,  Phil.  We 
shall  never  cease  to  love  each  other,  and  then  it  is 
only  a  year — think  of  that,  dear,  and  help  me  to  wait 
patiently — you  will,  won't  you  ?  "  There  was  a 
sweet,  gentle  pleading  in  her  tones  that  Phil  could 
not  resist. 

"  I  will  do  anything  to  make  you  happy,"  he 
answered,  "  but  this  delay  is  so  unnecessary,  so  un- 
reasonable. Your  mother  was  married  at  sixteen,  and 
you  are  nineteen  now." 

"  That  is  just  it.  Mama  feels  that  she  had  no  girl- 
hood herself  and  is  determined  that  I  shall  not  marry 
without  having  some  of  the  pleasures  that  other  girls 
have. ' ' 


"But  what  does  all  that  amount  to?  Hasn't  her 
life  been  a  happy  one  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  exceptionally  happy;  but  she  cannot  get 
over  the  feeling  that  she  missed  something  that  never 
can  be  made  up." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  girl's  getting  it  all  in  a 
very  short  time,"  replied  Phil  sententiously,  "and 
then  she  has  no  enthusiasm,  no  sweetness  left  in  her 
soul." 

"  Why,  Phil,  I  never  heard  you  talk  so  extrava- 
gantly before." 

"  I  never  had  occasion  to  draw  such  a  picture  be- 
fore, but  it  is  not  an  imperfect  likeness  of  the  blase 
girl  whose  youth  and  freshness  have  been  dulled  by 
her  insane  desire  to  see  it  all — to  miss  nothing." 


II. 


PHIL  DERRINGFORTH  was  two  years  old  when 
Marion  Kingsley  was  born.  She  was  as  sweet  a  baby 
as  one  could  wish  to  see,  with  bright  blue  eyes  and 
dimpled  cheeks.  Phil  was  a  promising  boy  with  good 
features  and  strong  body.  The  Derringforths  and 
the  Kingsleys  were  neighbors  ;  they  were  also  close 
friends.  As  Phil  and  Marion  grew  older  they  were 
as  brother  and  sister.  The  quarrels  between  them 
were  singularly  few.  She  seemed  to  realize  that  his 
greater  age  entitled  him  to  superior  knowledge.  Phil 
was  of  the  same  mind,  though  for  one  of  his  boyish 
tendencies  he  was  exceptionally  polite  to  his  sweet 
little  companion.  There  is  much  in  the  inheritance 
of  a  fine  fiber  —  a  natural  courtesy,  a  thoughtfulness 
for  others.  These  characteristics  were  Phil's,  and 
they  had  been  supplemented  by  careful  training. 
Marion,  too,  was  equally  well  born,  equally  well 
bred.  They  were  devoted  to  each  other  ;  unhappy 
without  each  other.  It  had  been  love  from  in- 
fancy. There  is  nothing  sweeter  than  such  love, 
starting  almost  with  life  itself  and  developing  with 
5 


the  growth  of  the  children,  changing  its  character 
as  they  change,  but  ever  strengthening  and  broad- 
ening until  it  ripens  into  the  deepest  sentiment. 

Marion  learned  to  like  the  sports  that  Phil  liked. 
She  cared  nothing  for  dolls.  A  game  of  ball  with 
Phil  or  a  dash  on  her  pony  suited  her  best.  "  Our 
boys  "  they  were  called  by  their  parents,  and  Marion 
liked  the  term.  Phil  was  her  ideal.  There  was  no 
other  boy  in  all  the  world  like  him,  and  to  be  classed 
with  him  as  a  boy  was  joy  enough  for  her.  She 
learned  to  row,  to  run  races,  to  jump,  and  to  climb 
trees. 

The  chase  after  a  woodchuck  or  the  snaring  of  a 
partridge  gave  her  no  less  pleasure  than  Phil.  Many 
was  the  tramp  they  took  together  across  country,  gath- 
ering wild  flowers,  hunting  squirrels,  and  robbing  the 
nests  of  bees  for  the  tiny  cells  of  honey.  Often  they 
would  get  stung,  but  Marion  would  bear  the  pain 
as  bravely  as  Phil,  and  they  would  laugh  away  the 
tears  that  sometimes  forced  themselves  into  their  eyes. 
In  the  winter,  when  Phil  and  Marion  were  in  their 
New  York  homes,  they  studied  together  and  played 
together.  They  read  the  same  books.  Phil  liked  tales 
of  adventure;  so  did  Marion.  The  ordinary  "  girl's 
story ' '  did  not  possess  enough  action  to  satisfy  her 
healthy  nature. 

At  twelve  Phil  was  sent  away  to  a  military  school 
where  the  discipline  was  strict  and  exacting.  He  did 
not  take  kindly  to  the  machine  life  at  first,  but  in  due 
6 


time,  like  most  boys,  became  very  fond  of  it.  The 
separation  from  Marion  troubled  him  most,  but  he 
wrote  her  many  letters  and  received  many  in  return 
from  her.  He  became  more  fond  of  her  during  his 
absence  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

The  fall  and  winter  went  by ;  the  summer  came, 
and  Phil  and  Marion  were  together  again  in  the 
country.  He  taught  her  to  drill,  and  the  old  sports 
of  previous  summers,  with  their  ponies  and  boats  and 
tennis,  made  the  weeks  fly  by  all  too  quick-ly.  The 
vacation  was  over  at  last,  and  Phil  and  Marion  were 
again  at  their  respective  schools.  The  attachment 
between  them  was  stronger  now  than  a  year  before, 
and  each  season  it  grew  deeper  and  broader  and  more 
mature.  Phil  had  taken  excellent  rank  in  school  and 
had  risen  to  be  captain  of  a  company.  At  eigh- 
teen he  graduated.  Marion  was  present  to  witness 
the  exercises.  Phil  acquitted  himself  well.  Marion 
was  proud  of  him.  He  was  the  tallest  and  handsom- 
est and  cleverest  fellow  in  his  class,  she  told  herself. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kingsley  shared  her  pride.  They  were 
scarcely  less  delighted  with  Phil's  achievements  than 
his  own  father  and  mother.  He  was  like  a  son  to 
them,  as  Marion  was  like  a  daughter  to  the  Derring- 
forths.  Each  family  expected,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
that  some  day  Phil  would  marry  Marion. 

When  the  summer  vacation  was  over  Phil  went 
into  his  father's  office  to  begin  the  career  of  a  busi- 
ness man.  Marion  spent  three  years  more  in  school, 

7 


and  then  graduated  well  up  in  her  class.  She  had 
developed  a  good  deal  of  talent  for  music.  Her  voice 
was  sweet  and  well  trained,  and  she  played  the  violin 
with  considerable  skill.  She  was  tall  and  willowy. 
Her  eyes  were  intelligent  and  pleasing.  The  lines  of 
her  face  were  good,  and  her  coloring  was  exquisite. 
It  was  this  that  added  most  to  her  beauty. 

With  her  development  into  womanhood,  developed 
also  the  ambition  of  her  mother.  The  Kingsleys  had 
abundant  means,  and  their  position  in  society  was 
high.  There  was  nothing  they  could  not  do  for 
Marion ;  nothing  they  did  not  do  that  promised  to 
be  for  her  interest.  The  six  months  that  followed 
her  graduation  were  spent  in  Europe  with  her  father 
and  mother.  On  her  return  she  had  a  brilliant  com- 
ing out  and  was  launched  successfully  upon  the  social 
swirl.  She  was  very  much  admired  ;  very  much  flat- 
tered. All  this  confirmed  Mrs.  Kingsley  in  her  de- 
cision that  Marion  should  have  a  year  and  more  of 
girl  life  before  marrying. 

"You  are  quite  as  pretty  as  any  of  them,"  her 
mother  told  her,  "and  are  far  more  accomplished. 
Your  singing  and  playing  alone  will  give  you  the 
greatest  advantage.  You  will  make  friends  and  so- 
cial connections  that  will  be  invaluable  to  you.  You 
cannot  understand  this  as  I  do,  my  child — you  can 
never  know  what  I  missed  by  marrying  so  young." 

It  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  Marion's  debut  that 
Phil  formally  proposed  to  her. 
8 


For  months  before  Mrs.  Kingsley  had  been  at  great 
pains  to  prepare  her  for  this.  It  had  been  done  by 
clever  tact,  by  delicate  suggestions,  by  examples  of 
social  successes.  These  efforts  were  not  without  effect 
upon  Marion.  Her  ambition  had  been  kindled.  She 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  society  matters  and  in  so- 
ciety people.  The  names  and  triumphs  of  reigning 
belles  were  now  familiar  to  her. 

"  Both  your  father  and  myself  are  very  fond  of  Phil, 
as  you  know,"  said  the  ambitious  mother,  "and 
hope  to  see  him  marry  you  some  day,  but  not  now. 
I  cannot  allow  my  daughter  to  lose  the  best  part  of 
her  life,  as  I  did,  and  besides,  I  do  not  believe  in  ear- 
ly marriages  for  girls.  Twenty  five  is  quite  young 
enough." 

"  Twenty  five  !  "  repeated  Marion.  "  You  would 
not  expect  me  to  wait  six  years  for  Phil." 

Mrs.  Kingsley  was  thoroughly  sincere.  Few  mothers 
ever  loved  their  daughters  more  than  she  loved  Marion. 
It  was  this  love  that  prompted  her  to  urge  a  late  mar- 
riage, believing,  as  many  do,  that  this  was  the  true 
secret  of  happiness.  But  nothing  of  this  sort  was  ever 
said  to  Marion  until  her  school  days  were  over.  Mrs. 
Kingsley  had  a  high  appreciation  of  the  value  of  cult- 
ure, and  had  devoted  herself  to  her  daughter's  inter- 
ests in  this  respect.  She  had  read  with 'her,  studied 
with  her,  and  brought  such  influences  around  her  as 
would  tend  to  make  her  more  thoughtful,  more  studi- 
ous. The  best  instructors  in  music  and  other  branches 


had  been  freely  employed.  Marion  showed  the  effect 
of  this  careful  training.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
lighter  novels.  Her  reading  had  been  confined  to 
standard  authors.  Her  knowledge  of  history,  biog- 
raphy, and  the  best  fiction  was  far  greater  than  that 
of  most  girls.  Her  association  with  Phil,  too,  had 
been  helpful  to  her.  He  was  a  thoughtful  fellow,  and 
she  had  learned  to  look  at  things  as  he  looked  at  them. 
Her  mental  grasp  was  that  of  the  masculine  mind, 
while  in  her  personality  and  manner  she  was  as  deli- 
cate and  refined  as  any  of  her  sex. 

When  Phil  proposed  to  her  she  was  both  very  glad 
and  very  sorry.  It  was  just  what  she  expected  him  to 
do,  just  what  he  should  have  done.  She  felt  deeply 
gratified  ;  she  felt  a  just  sense  of  pride  in  receiving  an 
offer  of  marriage  from  so  fine  a  fellow.  She  loved  him 
more  than  ever. 

Phil  had  been  in  his  father's  office  three  years,  and 
already  had  an  interest  in  the  firm.  His  income  was 
sufficient  to  warrant  him  in  proposing  marriage.  He 
knew  that  the  girl  he  loved  was  worthy  of  him — the 
one  of  all  others  to  make  him  happy.  To  have  waited 
longer  before  asking  Marion  to  be  his  wife  would  have 
been  folly.  Her  heart  responded  yes,  a  thousand  times 
yes,  to  his  proposal,  but  her  mother's  wishes — she 
could  not  go* contrary  to  them,  though  the  disappoint- 
ment to  her  was  death. 

"  I  understand  and  appreciate  your  ambition  for 
me,  mama,"  she  said,"  but  I  am  sure  all  the  society  in 


the  world  could  not  give  me  the  happiness  I  have 
with  Phil. 

"  What  is  there  in  society,  after  all,"  she  went  on, 
"  that  people  should  give  up  their  lives  to  it  ?  Does 
it  make  one  happier  ?  Does  it  make  one  better  and 
truer  ?  The  little  I  have  seen  of  it  shows  me  that  it 
is  insincere.  The  flattery  and  jealousies  and  strife — 
what  is  there  in  them  ?  I  like  books  and  music,  and 
want  to  keep  up  my  studies.  Phil  wants  me  to  do  so, 
and  says  he  will  study  with  me  and  read  with  me. 
We  could  be  very  happy  together,  Phil  and  I.  We 
could  have  such  a  sweet,  cozy  little  home.  I  am  sure, 
mama,  you  will  regret  it  if  you  insist  on  making  us 
both  unhappy.  Papa  is  willing  that  we  should  be 
married  at  any  time — he  is  very  fond  of  Phil." 

"  So  am  I  very  fond  of  Phil,  my  dear — just  as  fond 
as  your  father,  and  I  realize  that  what  you  say  about 
a  cozy  home  and  happiness  is  all  very  true.  But  your 
father  has  no  taste,  as  you  know,  for  society.  He 
cannot  understand  the  pleasures  to  be  had  from  it  or 
the  advantages  it  gives  one.  I  have  only  one  motive 
in  the  position  I  take,  and  that  is  your  greater  happi- 
ness. I  am  sure  it  would  be  a  mistake  for  you  to 
marry  now,  or  even  to  become  engaged.  A  girl  can 
be  young  only  once  in  her  life.  If  she  misses  the 
pleasures  that  properly  belong  to  youth,  as  I  missed 
them,  she  can  never  regain  them." 

"  But  you  have  been  very  happy,  mama.  Papa  has 
done  every  thing  for  you,  and  has  been  devoted  to  you. 


You  have  seen  the  world  and  society,  and  have  every- 
thing that  money  can  bring." 

"That  is  true,  my  child — no  man  could  do  more 
for  a  wife  than  he  has  done  for  me ;  no  man  could  be 
a  better  husband.  But  married  life  has  its  responsi- 
bilities and  cares.  I  had  not  finished  my  education 
when  I  was  married,  and  before  I  was  eighteen  you 
were  born.  The  mother,  who  is  the  mother  that  she 
should  be,  can  never  be  the  light  hearted  girl,  free 
from  care,  however  young  she  is.  Suppose,  instead 
of  becoming  a  wife  at  sixteen,  I  had  gone  to  school, 
as  you  have,  until  I  was  as  old  as  you  are  now,  and 
that  after  that  I  had  had  five  or  six  years  of  girl  pleas- 
ures, and  then  had  married  your  father,  wouldn't  my 
life  have  been  fuller  and  more  complete?  " 

"  But  perhaps  you  would  not  have  married  papa — 
perhaps  he  would  not  have  waited  for  you."  Marion 
said  this  with  a  shudder — the  thought  suggesting  that 
possibly  Phil  might  not  wait  for  her. 

"  Of  course,  that  is  possible,"  replied  her  mother; 
"but  a  girl's  chance  of  marrying  well  ought  to  be 
better  rather  than  worse  if  she  waits  until  she  is  old 
enough  to  have  some  judgment.  She  will  have  met 
many  men,  and  will  know  better  how  to  estimate  their 
merits  and  defects.  The  simple  fact  that  I  made  so 
desirable  a  match  at  my  age  does  not  justify  the  belief 
that  early  marriages  for  girls  bring  better  husbands. 
But  with  you,  my  dear,  it  is  not  a  question  of  a  desira- 
ble man.  Phil  is  perfectly  satisfactory  to  me,  as  he  is 


to  your  father.  It  is  a  question  of  your  managing 
your  life  so  that  you  will  get  the  greatest  happiness 
and  make  it  the  most  useful." 

"  I  cannot  see  that  society  is  likely  to  make  it  more 
useful  or  more  happy,"  replied  Marion. 

"  Society  certainly  broadens  one." 

' '  Does  it  not  also  narrow  one  ?  ' ' 

"It  may  in  some  ways,  but  not  as  a  whole.  It 
gives  one  a  better  idea  of  people  and  human  nature  in 
general.  Pope,  you  know,  said,  '  The  proper  study 
of  mankind  is  man.'  " 


III. 


MARION  did  not  enter  into  society  with  the  enthu- 
siasm her  mother  had  hoped  for.  She  responded  very 
slowly  to  the  flattering  reception  given  her,  but  re- 
sponded, nevertheless,  manifesting  from  week  to 
week  a  deeper  interest  in  the  people  she  met  and  the 
doings  of  the  social  world. 

The  fact  that  she  was  the  only  child  of  the  rich 
Matthew  Kingsley  made  her  a  very  desirable  catch. 
Beaux  varying  in  age  from  the  youth  of  the  insipid 
order  of  the  "  dude  "  to  the  old  man  whose  earthly 
career  was  nearly  finished,  paid  her  devoted  atten- 
tion. Fortune  hunters  gathered  about  her,  each 
trying  to  outdo  the  other  in  his  efforts  to  win  her 
hand.  She  was  flattered,  admired,  sought  after,  and 
there  was  a  certain  sense  of  pleasure  in  all  this.  No 
debutante  received  more  attention  than  she,  and  few 
shared  equal  honors  with  her.  This  was  a  triumph, 
and  delighted  Mrs.  Kingsley.  Her  ambition  for 
Marion  was  certainly  growing.  She  could  see  a  great 
social  success  ahead  for  her  daughter,  and  her  heart 
was  filled  with  pride — a  just  pride,  since  she  was  sin- 


cere  in  the  belief  that  this  sort  of  life  would  bring  the 
largest  measure  of  pleasure  and  happiness  to  Marion. 

There  was  a  coterie  of  antique,  fossilized  bachelors 
who  had  held  sway  for  many  years  in  the  social  circle 
to  which  Marion  had  recently  been  admitted.  They 
were  assiduous  in  their  attentions  each  season  to  the 
favorite  debutantes.  Marion  received  a  generous 
share  of  their  flattery. 

One  of  the  most  conspicuous  members  of  the  coterie 
was  J.  Harrington  Van  Stump,  a  sleek  old  man,  of 
full  three  score,  very  bald,  but  otherwise  well  pre- 
served. Van  Stump  was  worth  upwards  of  ten  mil- 
lions in  tangible  property,  according  to  popular  esti- 
mate, to  say  nothing  of  his  own  individual  worth. 
This  was  regarded  as  very  great  in  connection  with 
the  ten  millions.  Divorced  from  the  latter  there 
would  have  been  a  marvelous  shrinkage  in  the  per- 
sonal value  of  J.  Harrington  Van  Stump  as  a  factor  in 
the  world,  and  especially  as  a  matrimonial  possibility 
in  the  world  of  fashion. 

But  ten  millions  plus  Van  Stump,  or,  to  be  more 
respectful,  Van  Stump  plus  ten  millions,  considered 
as  a  whole,  was  irresistible,  viewed  from  his  stand- 
point or  from  the  standpoint  of  any  girl  who  would 
willingly  encumber  herself  with  this  respectable  piece 
of  antiquity  for  the  sake  of  being  a  widow  at  the  end 
of  a  few  years,  plus  the  millions  of  her  late  lamented 
husband. 

Van  Stump  lost  no  opportunity  to  impress  Marion 
15 


with  the  fact  of  his  riches,  and  as  was  his  custom  he 
aimed  to  make  her  feel  that  she  was  his  ideal — the 
one  girl  he  had  seen  in  his  life  that  he  could  love. 
This  devotion  annoyed  Marion.  "  He  makes  himself 
so  silly,"  she  said  to  her  mother.  "  What  does  he 
think — that  I  want  to  marry  him  for  his  money  ? 
Surely  he  cannot  be  foolish  enough  to  imagine  I 
could  love  him." 

"He  does  not  mean  anything,  dear,"  answered 
Mrs.  Kingsley.  "  It  is  simply  his  way." 

"  I  think  it  is  a  very  poor  way,  and  I  don't  like  it. 
I  wish  he  wouldn't  bother  me." 

"  You  shouldn't  feel  so.  Everything  said  in  the 
drawing  room  is  not  meant  seriously.  I  hope  you 
will  show  me  that  you  are  too  clever  to  offend  Mr. 
Van  Stump  simply  because  you  do  not  fancy  him." 

"  What  shall  I  do — try  to  make  him  believe  I  am  in 
love  with  him  ?  ' ' 

"That  would  not  be  clever  even  if  you  were  in 
love  with  him.  Simply  treat  him  pleasantly.  His 
position  demands  that.  You  cannot  afford  to  snub 
him — a  man  who  entertains  as  he  does,  and  who  is  to 
be  found  at  every  social  function  of  any  importance. ' ' 


IV. 


UNTIL  the  day  Phil  Derringforth  asked  Marion  to 
be  his  wife,  his  heart  had  been  as  light  as  the  clear, 
sweet  air  of  the  mountains.  He  had  known  nothing 
of  sorrow  beyond  the  little  annoyances  that  sadden 
the  hearts  of  children  and  in  an  hour  are  forgotten 
forever.  His  career  had  been  without  the  discipline 
gained  in  the  severe  school  of  adversity  and  denial. 
He  was  not  prepared  for  the  answer  that  Marion  gave 
him.  It  was  a  blow  that  paralyzed  his  hopes  and 
purposes. 

The  idea  of  a  refusal  or  postponement  had  never 
occurred  to  him.  The  disappointment  was  keen. 
His  soul  was  embittered  and  gloomy.  There  was 
no  sweetness  in  it,  only  the  dregs  that  poison.  A 
transformation  in  his  nature  had  begun.  The  sun- 
shine had  taken  wings.  Character  is  as  susceptible 
to  the  influence  of  a  thought  or  an  act  as  the  phys- 
ical system  is  susceptible  to  the  presence  of  a  drug. 

Derringforth's  will  had  never  before  been  thwarted. 
The  experience  was  a  new  sensation  to  him — a  reve- 
lation. He  was  in  a  rebellious  mood,  and  elements 
17 


in  his  nature  that  had  hitherto  been  dormant  now 
awoke  and  began  to  assert  themselves.  He  exagger- 
ated Mrs.  Kingsley's  offense — for  to  him  it  was  an 
offense  for  which  he  could  see  no  justification.  He 
looked  at  the  matter  wholly  from  his  own  point  of 
view,  and  shut  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that  there  might 
be  another  side  worthy  of  consideration.  He  knew 
simply  that  he  loved  Marion  deeply,  devotedly, 
madly.  He  was  old  enough  to  marry,  and  had  the 
means  to  marry.  He  did  his  own  thinking  and  was 
intolerant  of  interference.  Mrs.  Kingsley  had  taken 
this  office  upon  herself  simply,  as  he  argued,  to  satis- 
fy a  silly  fancy — to  see  Marion  flattered  and  talked 
about  in  the  social  world. 

"  Rubbish  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  petulant  tone  and 
with  a  sweep  of  the  hand  that  spoke  volumes. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  he  naturally  sought  to  avoid 
Mrs.  Kingsley,  but  this  involved  the  loss  of  intercourse 
with  Marion — a  deprivation  that  was  like  parting  with 
his  own  heart,  for  she  was  to  him  as  his  very  life. 
And  yet  he  felt  an  indefinable  resentment  against  her 
even.  She  had  not  told  him  of  her  pleading  with  her 
mother.  He  knew  only  the  answer  she  gave  him,  and 
the  thought  forced  itself  into  his  mind  that  she  had 
not  been  so  persistent  as  she  might  well  have  been. 

He  did  not  like  to  harbor  this  feeling,  and  con- 
demned himself  for  giving  place  to  the  thought.     He 
attempted  to  force  it  from  his  mind,  but  it  came  back, 
and  each  time  was  harder  to  dislodge. 
iS 


He  had  no  compunctions  in  placing  the  blame  on 
Mrs.  Kingsley.  At  first  he  tried  not  to  think  too 
harshly  of  her,  but  now  he  no  longer  attempted  any 
restraint  upon  his  feelings.  His  love  for  her  was  gone, 
but  Marion — no,  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  accuse 
her,  for  with  the  suspicion  that  she  had  fallen  short  of 
what  he  expected  of  her,  came  the  feeling  that  the 
very  foundation  of  things  was  crumbling. 

His  disquietude  increased  as  he  dwelt  upon  his  dis- 
appointment, and  he  sought  relief  in  scenes  that  up  to 
this  time  had  possessed  no  attraction  for  him.  They 
possessed  no  attraction  for  him  now,  but  they  did 
serve  to  distract  his  thoughts. 

Often  his  footsteps  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
Kingsleys'  when  he  went  out  from  his  home  at  night. 
Sometimes  he  called  on  Marion — sometimes  he  forced 
himself  to  walk  resolutely  by  the  house.  He  found 
that  he  was  about  as  likely  to  see  her  in  the  one  case  as 
in  the  other,  unless  he  had  previously  made  a  special 
appointment.  It  was  the  height  of  the  season,  and  her 
evenings  were  almost  all  given  to  social  engagements. 

"  I  would  so  much  rather  have  you  come  in,  Phil, 
as  you  used  to,"  she  said  in  a  note  to  him,  "  than  go 
at  the  pace  I  am  going,  spending  all  my  time  with 
people  in  whom  I  have  little  interest.  But  there  is  no 
moderation  in  this  life.  If  one  happens  to  be  in  favor 
she  must  go  all  the  time,  or  she  will  offend  some  one. 
It  is  either  all  or  none.  I  am  crowding  half  a  dozen 
years  into  this  one  season,  so  that  mama  will  be  satis- 
19 


fied,  as  I  am  sure  she  will  be,  and  then  we  can  marry 
and  have  our  dear  little  home  and  be  so  happy.  I 
only  wish  you  would  go  out  with  me.  You  would  not 
find  society  such  a  horrible  bore  as  you  imagine,  but  I 
suppose  I  might  as  well  think  of  flying  as  attempt  to 
induce  you  to  do  the  thing  you  do  not  want  to  do. 
Come  and  see  me  very  soon — you  don't  know  how  I 
miss  you  ;  you  are  not  a  bit  neighborly.  What  has 
changed  you  so  ?  I  hope  no  other  attachment — no,  I 
won't  say  it,  won't  allow  myself  to  think  the  thought 
that  would  make  me  miserable." 

"What  has  changed  me  so  ?"  meditated  Derring- 
forth,  and  he  took  up  the  letter  and  read  the  sentence 
a  second  time.  "  Changed  me  !  "  he  repeated,  with 
the  suggestion  of  a  cloud  gathering  on  his  brow. 
"  The  change  isn't  in  me." 

One  rarely  sees  a  change  in  himself;  but,  as  he 
changes,  his  point  of  view  shifts,  and  then  he  thinks 
others  have  changed — not  himself.  Marion  was  yield- 
ing to  the  influence  of  her  new  associations.  Derring- 
forth  was  yielding  to  the  influence  of  the  thoughts 
that  embittered  his  soul,  as  well  as  to  that  of  the  asso- 
ciations he  had  recently  sought.  Each  had  drifted  a 
little  away  from  the  other,  and  each  felt  that  the  other 
had  done  all  the  drifting. 

But  they  were  still  not  far  apart.  A  word,  a  look, 
a  pressure  of  the  hand  might  have  closed  up  the  gap. 

The  word  was  not  spoken,  the  look  was  not  given, 
the  pressure  of  the  hand  was  withheld. 


Deep  feeling  engenders  sensitiveness.  It  causes  one 
to  magnify  little  matters  that  would  otherwise  be 
passed  over  unnoticed.  Had  Derringforth's  love  been 
less  he  would  not  have  entertained  for  a  moment  the 
thoughts  that  found  lodgment  in  his  heart. 


V. 


DERRINGFORTH'S  father  started  in  life  as  a  civil 
engineer,  but  he  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  continue 
working  for  others.  He  was  little  more  than  a  boy 
when  he  took  his  first  contract  to  build  a  short  line  of 
railroad.  The  work  did  not  require  large  capital,  but 
it  involved  the  expenditure  of  much  more  than  he 
possessed.  He  made  up  the  deficiency  by  financier- 
ing, and  in  this  he  was  successful,  as  was  also  his 
earliest  effort  at  railroad  building. 

The  first  contract  had  scarcely  been  completed  when 
he  undertook  another  and  a  more  difficult  piece  of 
engineering.  In  this  too  he  was  successful,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  few  years  Warren  Derringforth  became  known 
as  a  man  of  energy  and  daring. 

But  his  merit  was  his  fault. 

It  was  this  boldness  that  had  made  him  what  he  was ; 
it  was  this  same  boldness  that  endangered  his  career. 
He  was  a  heavy  borrower,  but  withal  managed  his 
affairs  so  well  that  his  credit  stood  high  in  the  market. 
Paper  bearing  his  name  was  never  refused.  Each 
year  added  to  the  extent  of  his  undertakings.  They 


expanded  faster  than  his  capital,  but  with  this  expan- 
sion came  a  like  increase  of  skill  as  a  financier. 

Some  years  he  made  large  profits ;  in  others  his 
losses  were  heavy.  In  the  one  case,  as  in  the  other, 
he  never  wanted  for  ready  money,  and  no  one  could 
have  divined  from  his  manner  the  burden  of  risk  he 
was  bearing. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  all  this  was  changed. 
The  firm  was  now  Derringforth  &  Derringforth.  There 
was  a  sudden  pinch  in  the  money  market.  For  the 
first  time  in  the  history  of  the  house  its  paper  was  re- 
fused. Money  had  to  be  raised  to  meet  maturing 
obligations,  and  to  carry  on  the  vast  enterprises  the 
Derringforths  were  engineering. 

It  was  merely  a  question  of  tiding  over  a  few  days, 
Mr.  Derringforth  told  himself.  This  must  be  done  at 
any  cost,  or  the  structure  of  a  life's  work  would  fall 
with  a  mighty  crash.  But  how  should  the  money  be 
raised  ?  It  must  be  done  quietly.  The  slightest  sus- 
picion of  weakness  and  all  would  be  over.  The  name 
of  Derringforth  would  be  ground  to  earth,  and  the 
hand  that  had  been  a  power  in  the  world  would  lose 
its  magic  touch. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Relief  must  be 
had,  and  quickly,  or  it  would  be  too  late.  Inaction 
meant  ruin.  Something  extraordinary  must  be  done. 
What  should  it  be  ? 

Warren  Derringforth  walked  back  and  forth  in  his 
office  and  thought — thought  as  a  man  thinks  when 
23 


the  pressure  upon  him  is  crushing  out  his  very  life. 
Presently  he  stepped  to  the  door  and  called  to  his 
son. 

"  We  are  face  to  face  with  a  crisis,  Phil,"  said  he. 
"  We  must  raise  fifty  thousand  dollars  within  three 
days  or  we  are  lost.  The  ordinary  channels  for  rais- 
ing money  are  closed  to  us.  There  remains  but  one 
thing  to  be  done.  We  must  find  a  Shylock — you 
must  find  him." 


VI. 


J.  HARRINGTON  VAN  STUMP  lived  alone  with  his 
servants  in  a  large,  richly  furnished  house  in  a  fash- 
ionable neighborhood  in  New  York. 

It  was  midnight.  A  narrow  chested  man  with 
sloping  shoulders  and  sharp  features  ambled  up  the 
steps  of  the  Van  Stump  mansion  and  pulled  the  bell 
nervously.  The  house  was  ablaze  with  lights.  The 
door  was  thrown  open  and  the  warm  air,  scented 
with  the  odor  of  flowers  and  sweet  perfume,  fanned 
his  cadaverous  cheeks.  The  sound  of  music  and 
many  voices  reached  his  ears. 

He  hesitated  before  speaking,  and  then  said  tim- 
idly : 

"  I  have  come — I  fear  I  have  come  at  an  inoppor- 
tune time.  I  didn't  know — you  see  I  didn't  know 
of  this  party.  I  will  wait — if  you  please — I  will  wait 
in  the  basement  until  the  fete  is  over.  I  have  an 
important  communication  for  Mr.  Van  Stump." 

Among  the  last  of  the  guests  to  take  their  leave 
were  the  Kingsleys.  Marion  had  never  looked  pret- 
tier. Her  face  was  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  the 
25 


evening.  She  gave  her  hand  to  Van  Stump  and  said 
good  night,  thanking  him  for  the  pleasure  he  had 
given  her.  The  feeling  of  her  hand  within  his  own, 
her  beauty,  and  the  sweetness  of  her  voice  quickened 
for  an  instant  the  pulsations  of  his  heart — a  heart  that 
had  rarely  beaten  faster  or  slower  because  of  the  joys 
or  sorrows  that  move  men  of  warm  blood. 

His  eyes  followed  her  as  she  passed  out  of  the 
room.  The  look  was  not  that  of  love.  It  was  some- 
thing akin  to  that  of  the  miser  gazing  through  a 
broker's  window  at  a  heap  of  gold  coins. 

The  last  guest  was  gone,  and  Van  Stump  threw  him- 
self wearily  into  a  chair.  He  had  excelled  himself  as 
a  genial  host.  He  knew  how  to  entertain,  and  did 
it  generously — did  it  as  one  whose  heart  is  full  of 
sweetness  and  warmth.  An  analysis  of  his  nature 
would  have  puzzled  the  philosopher. 

The  butler  handed  a  card  to  Van  Stump.  It  bore 
the  name  "  Martin  Strum." 

"Strum,"  said  Van  Stump,  frowning.  "What 
does  he  want  at  this  time  of  night  ?  Take  him  to  the 
library  and  I  will  be  there  directly." 

Strum  bowed  and  apologized  for  intruding  at  so 
late  an  hour.  When  he  had  humbled  himself  suf- 
ficiently before  this  modern  Croesus,  in  whose  pres- 
ence he  felt  keenly  his  own  meanness  of  soul,  he  then 
said  what  he  had  come  to  say — that  he  had  clients 
who  must  have  fifty  thousand  dollars  on  the  following 
day. 

26 


"  Fifty  thousand  dollars  !  "  exclaimed  Van  Stump, 
throwing  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"  It  is  a  big  sum,"  replied  Strum  timidly. 

"  A  big  sum  indeed,  and  money  is  very  tight." 

"  They  expect  to  pay  for  the  use  of  it,"  insinuated 
Strum. 

"  Of  course,  but  the  demand  for  money  is  some- 
thing to  turn  one's  head.  I  have  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it." 

"You  are  quite  right,  sir,  quite  right,"  assented 
Strum.  "  I  told  my  clients  so." 

"  You  gave  them  to  understand  that  the  loan 
would  cost  a  snug  sum  ?  ' ' 

"  Indeed  I  did,  sir." 

' '  Did  you  name  any  amount  ?  ' ' 

"I  said  I  didn't  know  where  it  could  be  raised 
even  if  they  were  willing  to  pay  ten  per  cent  a 
month." 

"  And  they  still  wanted  you  to  get  it? — their  needs 
must  be  urgent  indeed.  But  you  are  too  modest, 
Strum,  too  modest.  The  money  can't  be  raised  at 
that  price  in  these  times." 

"  Perhaps  they  would  pay  more,"  pleaded  Strum. 

"  But  the  security — you  have  looked  into  that  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  pinch,  sir.  They  could  raise  money 
on  a  mortgage,  but  this  is  just  what  they  want  to 
avoid." 

"  I  see,  h'm,  h'm,"  said  Van  Stump,  with  a  selfish 
gleam  i n  his  eyes.  ' '  What  did  you  say  their  name  is  ?  " 
27 


"  Here  is  their  card,  sir." 

' '  Derringforth  !  ' '  exclaimed  Van  Stump.  ' '  The 
Derringforths  in  trouble  ?  ' ' 

His  interest  was  alive  now. 

"They  are  carrying  on  large  enterprises,  and  this 
pinch  has  caught  them,  but  they  are  well  rated  and 
the  father  has  a  house  worth  ninety  thousand  dollars 
on  which  there  is  no  lien.  Besides  this,  a  great  deal 
of  money  is  due  them  on  contracts  partially  com- 
pleted. They  have,  too,  a  lot  of  unlisted  securities 
that  they  regard  as  good,  but  that  are  not  acceptable 
as  collateral  in  the  present  state  of  the  market." 

"  And  these  securities  are  the  collateral  they  of- 
fer?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Securities  that  would  not  bring  a  dollar  in  the 
money  market  ?  ' ' 

"  Possibly,  sir." 

"And  they  expect  you  to  raise  for  them  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  on  collateral  that  no  bank  would  take  ?  ' ' 

"  If  the  collateral  were  gilt  edge  they  would  not 
seek  money  through  me,  sir.  They  came  to  me  with 
their  eyes  open,  understanding  that  if  they  got  it, 
they  would  have  to  pay  for  it." 

"  And  you  must  go  to  them  with  your  eyes  open — 
wide  open.  Sift  their  affairs  to  the  bottom — mind 
you,  to  the  bottom." 

' '  I  will  go  as  far  into  their  affairs  as  they  will  al- 
low me." 

28 


"  Allow  you,  did  you  say — allow  you  ?  "  cried  Van 
Stump,  rising  in  well  simulated  wrath. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  offended  you,  sir.  I  am  very 
sorry  —  I  am,  indeed,  sorry,"  apologized  Strum, 
wringing  his  hands. 

"You  are  too  easily  frightened,  Strum;  you  lack 
nerve.  I  like  bold  men  about  me — men  not  afraid 
to  do  as  I  tell  them.  The  Derringforths  want 
money,  and  must  have  it.  It  is  not  for  them  to  allow 
anything.  They  are  at  your  mercy.  Flaunt  the 
money  in  their  faces,  and  they  will  show  you  their 
very  souls  if  you  demand  it.  You  are  not  seeking  an 
investment ;  they  are  seeking  a  loan.  But  be  diplo- 
matic— remember,  diplomatic.  There  may  be  game 
here  worth  the  chase." 

"  Depend  upon  me,  sir,  to  follow  your  instructions 
strictly,"  replied  Strum  obsequiously. 

' '  Very  good,  do  so,  and  keep  a  sharp  watch  for  a 
twist,  Strum — a  twist — you  understand  ? ' ' 

"  I  understand." 

"  You  wouldn't  mind  making  a  fee  —  a  modest  fee 
for  yourself,  I  dare  say,  if  they  were  forced  to  the 
wall,"  insinuated  Van  Stump. 

"  I  need  the  money,  heaven  knows,  sir,"  answered 
Strum  eagerly. 

"  Keep  your  wits  about  you,  then,  and  bring  me  a 
correct  statement  of  their  affairs.  Come  to  me  to- 
morrow at  twelve." 


VII. 

"  IT  is  outrageous,  father,"  said  young  Derring- 
forth,  white  with  indignation.  "  I  would  have 
thrown  the  fellow  out  of  the  office.  He  is  a  robber 
— twenty  per  cent  a  month,  two  hundred  and  forty 
per  cent  a  year,  ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  use  of 
fifty  thousand  and  for  only  thirty  days.  Why,  it  is 
damnable !  ' ' 

"  So  it  is,  Phil — damnable  in  the  extreme — but  we 
had  better  pay  four  times  ten  thousand  than  have  our 
paper  go  to  protest,"  replied  the  father. 

"  But  the  impudence  of  the  cur — think  of  his  pry- 
ing into  our  affairs  as  he  did  !  I  could  hardly  keep 
my  hands  off  him. ' ' 

"  I  feel  as  strongly  as  you  do,  Phil,  against  him 
and  his  class ;  but  we  are  in  his  power  and  must  ac- 
cept his  terms  or  go  to  the  wall." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  to  call  a  halt  than  to 
place  ourselves  in  the  hands  of  such  a  heartless 
scoundrel  ?  ' ' 

"  Call  a  halt  ?  Never  so  long  as  the  name  of  Der- 
ringforth  can  be  kept  afloat,  though  there  be  ex- 
30 


tortion  on  top  of  extortion,  and  yet  extortion  on  top 
of  that. ' ' 

The  fifty  thousand  dollars  was  secured. 

The  foundation  for  the  "  twist "  was  laid. 

The  stringency  in  the  money  market  continued.  A 
week  went  by,  and  the  fifty  thousand  was  gone. 
Another  loan  must  be  had,  or  all  would  be  lost. 
Strum  was  appealed  to  again,  and  again  the  house  of 
the  Derringforths  was  humiliated.  The  loan  was  in- 
creased to  one  hundred  thousand,  on  terms  increas- 
ingly extortionate.  The  twist  had  taken  hold. 

Matters  grew  worse  with  the  Derringforths.  The 
market  became  easier,  and  still  their  paper  was  re- 
fused. There  was  a  mysterious  something  in  the 
manner  of  bankers  that  Mr.  Derringforth  could  not 
understand.  He  sought  an  explanation,  but  was  put 
off  with  small  doses  of  sugar  coated  deception.  He 
tried  to  divine  the  meaning  of  all  this — to  unravel  the 
mystery.  Surely  all  obligations  had  been  met  as 
promptly  as  ever.  Why,  then,  should  he  not  have, 
as  he  always  had  had,  the  confidence  of  financial  in- 
stitutions? Was  not  the  business  of  the  house  larger 
than  ever  before,  and  were  not  its  contracts  yielding 
exceptional  profits  ? 

But  speculation  as  to  the  cause  of  the  situation 
availed  nothing.  They  must  have  money,  money, 
money,  and  that  quickly,  or  the  herculean  efforts  he 
had  made  to  tide  over  the  squeeze  would  have  been 
put  forth  to  no  purpose. 

31 


The  twist  was  beginning  to  be  felt. 

Strum  was  appealed  to  a  third  time.  The  money 
was  advanced.  The  twist  took  another  turn  and  the 
Derringforths  winced. 

A  friend  came  to  them  and  told  them  it  was  whis- 
pered about  that  they  were  in  financial  trouble — that 
they  had  been  paying  exorbitant  prices  for  money. 

"This  explains  the  mystery,"  said  Mr.  Derring- 
forth,  looking  like  one  who  had  been  betrayed.  "  It 
is  plain  now  why  our  paper  has  been  refused. ' ' 

But  he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  from  whence  the 
report  issued.  "And  the  motive,"  he  meditated. 
"  Only  Strum  knows  of  the  loan,  and  it  is  for  his  in- 
terest to  say  nothing. ' ' 

Van  Stump  could  have  enlightened  him  as  to  the 
motive.  It  was  a  part  of  the  twist. 


VIII. 

WITH  the  advent  of  Lent,  the  Kingsleys  joined  a 
party  that  was  to  go  to  California.  The  Derringforths 
were  invited,  and  Mrs.  Derringforth  urged  her  hus- 
band to  accept  the  invitation,  but  he  said  simply  that 
he  could  not  leave  his  business. 

"  I  wish,  dear,  you  would  not  work  so  hard,"  she 
answered.  "Your  ambition  will  lead  you  to  the 
grave.  You  look  worried  and  worn  out." 

The  husband  tried  to  laugh  away  his  wife's  fore- 
bodings, but  the  idea  remained  with  him. 

Truth  pierces  the  heart,  while  words  of  lighter  im- 
port glance  off  without  the  trace  of  an  impress. 

"  It  would  do  you  a  world  of  good,"  pleaded  Mrs. 
Derringforth,  "  to  take  this  California  trip,  and  I 
should  like  so  much  to  go  myself. ' ' 

"  I  should  like  to  go,  dear,  and  especially  on  your 
account.  It  grieves  me  to  think  you  should  miss  this 
pleasure.  I  wish  you  would  reconsider  your  decision 
and  go  without  me." 

"  I  should  find  no  pleasure  in  the  trip  without  you. 
33 


The  thought  of  your  working  like  a  galley  slave  at 
home  would  haunt  me  the  whole  time." 

"  But  suppose  you  and  Phil  go.  He  has  buckled 
down  to  business  like  a  veteran,  and  needs  the  change 
far  more  than  I.  And  besides,  Marion  will  be  one 
of  the  party.  Think  of  this  and  make  up  your 
mind  to  go.  I  shall  be  happier  knowing  that  you 
and  Phil  are  happier.  Your  interests  are  more  to  me 
than  money,  though  you  think  my  ambition  will  lead 
me  to  the  grave.  It  isn't  that  I  am  so  ambitious 
now  for  great  wealth.  I  have  reached  that  age  when 
I  would  prefer  to  take  it  more  quietly.  But  one  can- 
not always  do  as  he  would  wish.  One  has  a  business 
and  it  expands  beyond  his  design — almost  beyond 
his  control,  sometimes.  It  runs  itself  in  a  way,  and 
takes  him  along  with  it.  But  I  am  going  to  draw  in 
the  lines  so  that  I  shall  have  more  leisure  for  you  and 
for  myself." 

"  I  should  think  you  might  go  with  us,  Phil — 
with  me,"  pleaded  Marion  in  her  most  persuasive 
way. 

"  I  wish  I  could,  little  girl,"  he  said,  his  heart  year- 
ning to  say  yes.  "  Six  weeks  with  you  would  be  life 
again  to  me,  but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  get  away. ' ' 

"Impossible!"  she  repeated  the  word.  How 
strangely  it  sounded  as  she  said  it.  Her  disappoint- 
ment could  not  have  been  more  forcefully  expressed. 

"But  there  are  obstacles,"  he  hastened    to  say, 
"  that  one  cannot  possibly  overcome." 
34 


"  Love  should  know  no  obstacles,"  replied  Marion, 
almost  sharply. 

"You  question  my  love,  then?"  said  Derring- 
forth,  the  hot  blood  rushing  to  his  cheeks.  A  few 
months  before  he  would  not  have  uttered  these  words, 
and  even  now  he  would  have  given  his  right  hand  to 
recall  them. 

Marion  flushed — not  so  much  at  what  he  had  said 
as  at  his  manner  of  saying  it.  She  hesitated  before 
speaking. 

"  Phil,  we  mustn't  go  on  in  this  way,"  she  said 
sweetly.  "  Let  us  avoid  anything  that  would  cause 
us  regret,"  and  she  extended  her  hand  to  him  in 
token  of  good  faith.  He  took  it  in  his  own,  and 
there  was  love  and  penitence  and  hope  in  the  pres- 
sure he  gave  it. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said  tenderly.  "  I  am  hard- 
ly myself." 

"  You  have  been  hardly  yourself,  Phil,  for  a  long 
time.  What  has  changed  you  so?  " 

"  Can  you  ask — don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  But  you  promised  to  be  brave  and  help  me  wait 
patiently.  Must  I  help  you  ?  ' ' 

"I  think  I  need  the  help  more  than  you."  It 
was  his  heart  that  said  these  words,  not  his  head — a 
heart  distracted  by  business  troubles  and  crying  out 
in  its  loneliness. 


IX. 


THE  Kingsleys  separated  from  the  party  in  San 
Francisco,  and  went  to  visit  an  old  friend  of  Mr. 
Kingsley,  who  had  a  large  ranch  in  southern  Cali- 
fornia— Edwards  was  his  name.  Kingsley  and  Ed- 
wards had  been  boys  together  in  New  England  a 
generation  before.  The  one  had  found  his  way  to 
the  metropolis  and  the  other  to  the  far  West. 
Each  had  grown  rich  in  worldly  possessions,  though 
the  Westerner  had  more  to  show  for  his  life  than  the 
metropolitan,  for  the  number  of  his  children  was  a 
round  half  dozen,  while  Marion  alone  was  the  Kings- 
ley  heir. 

The  oldest  of  the  Edwards  children  was  a  young 
man,  twenty  four,  tall,  broad  chested,  and  straight, 
with  light  hair  worn  long,  and  complexion  as  fair  as 
a  woman's.  He  was  as  picturesque  a  fellow  as  ever 
played  havoc  with  the  heart  of  a  girl.  He  was 
the  embodiment  of  human  nature — generous,  gay, 
unrestrained — a  natural  man  with  big  heart  and 
abounding  health.  He  had  grown  up  in  the  saddle, 
and  was  as  perfect  a  horseman  as  the  most  dashing 
36 


product  of  the  frontier.  He  was  a  child  of  nature, 
as  sweet  as  a  girl,  as  chivalrous  as  a  knight  of  old. 

Such  was  Burton  Edwards  as  Marion  Kingsley  saw 
him — such  he  was  in  fact.  The  Edwardses  were  de- 
lightful people,  and  made  the  Kingsleys  as  much  at 
home  as  if  they  had  been  kin  of  their  own.  Sallie, 
the  next  in  age  to  Burton,  was  but  a  year  younger 
than  Marion.  She  had  the  ingenuous,  whole  souled, 
sunny  disposition  of  her  brother.  Marion  was  charmed 
with  her,  and  told  herself  that  she  had  never  before 
seen  human  nature  in  such  attractive  guise,  where 
such  perfect  sincerity  and  childlike  freedom  throbbed 
with  every  pulsation  of  the  heart. 

Marion  had  been  with  the  Edwardses  barely  an 
hour  when  she  was  "  Marion  "  to  every  one.  For- 
mality had  no  place  in  that  delightful  ranch  life,  un- 
trammeled  by  the  conventionality  of  the  city  that 
dries  up  the  springs  of  sweetness  and  simplicity  and 
makes  the  heart  the  abode  of  cant  and  artificiality. 

As  it  was  "  Marion  "  with  Burton  and  Sallie,  so  it 
was  "Burton"  and  "Sallie"  with  Marion.  The 
three  entered  into  the  sports  of  ranch  life  with  the 
zest  and  enthusiasm  of  children ;  and  children  they 
were  in  fact,  without  a  care  or  a  thought  to  mar  their 
happiness.  Not  a  thought — no,  that  would  hardly 
be  true,  for  Marion  had  left  behind  her  a  lover,  the 
playmate  of  her  childhood,  the  light  of  her  life.  Yes, 
she  had  a  thought  for  Phil,  poor  boy,  who  was  toiling 
while  she  was  playing,  working  for  her  and  the  home 
37 


they  were  some  day,  to  share  together.  But  that 
home  and  that  some  day — how  indefinite  now,  and 
how  real  it  had  been  but  a  few  months  before ! 

Her  life  was  crowded  Avith  pleasures  and  intoxicated 
by  the  association  with  two  natures  that  were  as  a 
stimulant  to  her  own.  She  marveled  at  the  things 
she  did,  the  miles  she  rode,  the  tennis  she  played,  the 
dances  she  danced. 

"You  shall  ride  Dick  today,  Marion,"  said  Bur- 
ton when  she  had  been  at  the  ranch  a  week.  Dick 
was  his  own  horse,  a  thoroughbred,  and  the  finest  in 
the  county. 

"Ride  Dick!  I  ride  Dick!"  she  answered. 
"  Nothing  would  delight  me  so  much — he  is  such  a 
beauty,  but  I  can't  allow  myself  to  take  him  from 
you. ' ' 

"  Don't  think  of  that,"  replied  Burton,  in  his  free, 
generous  way.  "  He  shall  be  yours  all  the  time  you 
are  with  us — I'll  ride  Bruno ;  he  is  an  ugly  beast,  but 
I'm  in  the  mood  to  tame  him.  We  will  have  great 
sport  now.  Sallie's  horse  is  a  good  match  for  Bruno. 
The  races  we  will  have  will  be  something  to  remem- 
ber when  you  get  back  to  New  York. ' ' 

"I'm  sure  they  will,  but  they  will  not  be  the 
only  delightful  remembrance.  I  could  not  well  for- 
get the  many  things  you  have  done  for  my  pleasure ; 
and  now  to  crown  all  you  give  up  your  horse  to 
me." 

"That's  nothing,"   laughed   Burton.     "We  are 
38 


the  debtors,  for  you  are  giving  us  more  pleasure  than 
it  is  possible  for  us  to  give  you." 

"  Oh,  what  extravagance  !  "  protested  Marion. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  answered  Burton.  "  I  put  it  not 
strongly  enough,  rather  than  too  strongly.  It  is  a 
rare  thing  to  have  a  New  York  girl  with  us,  you 
know,  and  it  is  especially  rare  to  have  one  who  is  so 
congenial,  one  who  enters  into  our  wild  life  with  such 
enthusiasm  as  you  do. ' ' 

The  days  passed  by  unnumbered,  one  following  an- 
other so  quickly  that  there  was  no  beginning,  no  end- 
ing. The  Kingsleys  had  been  at  the  ranch  three 
weeks,  and  the  visit  was  to  end  on  the  morrow. 

Burton  and  Marion  went  out  for  their  last  ride 
together.  Sallie  remained  at  home.  Was  the  cause 
assigned  genuine  or  counterfeit  ?  Marion  asked  her- 
self this.  At  all  events  she  was  glad  that  Burton  and 
she  were  alone,  and  yet  she  was  conscious  of  the  feel- 
ing that  it  would  be  better  if  Sallie  were  with  them. 

Dick  had  been  equipped  with  special  trappings  in 
her  honor.  She  appreciated  this.  What  woman  does 
not  love  these  little  attentions?  They  appeal  with 
peculiar  force  to  the  feminine  heart.  The  day  was 
bright  and  the  air  was  clear  and  exhilarating.  Dick 
was  in  fine  form  and  eager  for  a  dash.  But  there 
was  a  feeling  of  depression  that  both  Burton  and 
Marion  shared  alike.  It  was  the  thought  of  her 
leaving  for  the  East  on  the  following  day.  It  hung 
over  them  like  a  cloud,  and  pursued  them  whether 
39 


the  horses  were  racing  in  full  gallop  or  walking  slowly 
beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  the  great  trees. 

Marion  leaned  forward  and  patted  Dick's  neck. 

"  You  shall  have  him  for  your  own,  Marion.  I 
will  give  him  to  you,"  said  Burton  impulsively. 

"Give  Dick  to  me!  Oh,  no,  you  don't  mean 
that,"  replied  Marion. 

"I  do  indeed." 

"  But  I  could  not  think  of  taking  him  away  from 
you. ' ' 

"I  wish  you  would.  I  should  be  happier  in  the 
thought  that  he  was  giving  you  pleasure  than  in  rid- 
ing him  myself. ' ' 

"  I  thank  you  so  much.  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
feel  how  deeply  I  appreciate  the  offer,  and  your 
thought  for  my  happiness.  But  papa  would  not 
allow  me  to  accept  so  valuable  a  present.  It  would 
not  be  right." 

Burton  felt  that  he  was  not  making  the  progress  he 
had  hoped  for.  The  horses  were  walking  now,  and 
he  and  Marion  rode  silently  on  side  by  side.  Neither 
said  anything  for  a  little  time.  Finally  Burton  raised 
his  head  and  turned  toward  Marion.  There  was  love 
in  his  eyes  as  they  met  hers,  and  he  spoke  softly, 
tenderly. 

Marion  felt  what  was  coming,  and  strove  to  save 

him  the  humiliation.     Time  after  time  she  adroitly 

turned  the  conversation — turned  it  so  cleverly  that 

Burton  did  not  suspect  her  motive.     But  the  strong, 

40 


passionate  love  that  swayed  his  heart  could  not  be  so 
easily  repressed.  Again  and  again  he  came  back  to 
the  subject,  almost  abruptly  at  times,  and  as  often 
she  led  him  to  a  different  theme,  but  always  with 
such  gentle  tact  and  perfect  skill  that  he  could  scarce 
discern  she  divined  his  purpose. 

It  was  will  against  will,  and  the  will  of  the  woman 
won.  She  had  saved  him,  and  saved  herself  the 
pain  of  refusing  him. 

The  next  day  she  said  good  by.  He  prolonged 
his  hold  upon  her  hand  and  looked  the  words  he  fain 
would  have  spoken. 

' '  I  shall  see  you  in  New  York  before  very  long, ' ' 
he  said  as  he  handed  her  into  the  carriage.  There 
was  an  attempt  to  speak  lightly,  but  his  voice  be- 
trayed his  true  feelings. 

That  last  look  was  photographed  upon  Marion's 
mind,  and  as  she  journeyed  homeward  it  was  ever 
with  her. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  him,  poor  fellow,"  she  said  to 
herself;  "  very  sorry.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  cared  for 
me — that  he  loved  me — until  the  day  we  went  riding 
alone.  I  cannot  think  it  was  my  fault.  How 
strange  it  all  seems,  and  it  makes  me  so  uncomfort- 
able !  Perhaps  I  am  to  blame — just  a  little — perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  have  seen  so  much  of  him,  but  I 
couldn't  very  well  make  myself  disagreeable,  and  be- 
sides, I  liked  him.  It  can't  be  a  crime  for  a  girl  to 
like  a  man  when  he  interests  her ;  and  Burton  is  such 
41 


a  delightful  fellow.  But  he  shouldn't  have  fallen  in 
love.  I  wonder  why  people  do  such  foolish  things. 
Phil  and  I  never  fell  in  love — and  I  was  there  only 
three  weeks.  Perhaps,  though,  I  should  have  told 
him  something  of  Phil ;  but  what  could  I  have  said  ? 
Phil  and  I  are  not  engaged.  Mama  didn't  wish  us 
to  be  engaged.  If  we  had  been,  I  could  have  said 
so,  and  that  would  have  saved  him — I'm  not  sure, 
though ;  sometimes  men  fall  in  love  with  engaged 
girls.  I  wonder  if  he  would  have  done  that.  Well, 
he  will  forget  all  about  me  in  a  little  while,  and  then 
he  will  laugh  at  his  folly — yes,  forget  all  about  me," 
and  there  was  a  perceptible  sigh.  Was  it  an  expres- 
sion of  sorrow  for  Burton  Edwards  or  the  moan  of  a 
heart  pierced  by  Cupid's  arrow  ? 


X. 


SPRING  melted  into  summer,  summer  vanished  into 
fall,  and  fall  faded  into  winter;  and  with  winter 
came  in  a  season  of  unparalleled  gayety.  Marion  was 
on  the  crest  of  the  wave. 

Phil  had  seen  comparatively  little  of  her  since  her 
departure  for  California.  He  had  not  been  out  of 
town,  and  she  had  spent  few  days  in  town.  Through- 
out all  the  hot  weather  he  had  worked  with  hardly 
the  loss  of  an  hour.  It  was  a  struggle  for  existence, 
and  side  by  side  with  his  father  he  strove  to  avert 
the  crash.  They  were  yet  in  the  toils  of  Van  Stump. 
Phil  showed  the  effects  of  the  long  confinement  and 
the  strain  he  had  undergone.  His  father  wore  deeper 
marks  of  torture.  The  twist  had  squeezed  him 
hardest. 

Strum  was  obsequious  and  snaky.  The  cold  grasp 
behind  him,  the  hand  that  turned  the  screws,  was  as 
yet  unknown  to  either  Mr.  Derringforth  or  his  son. 
They  had  succeeded  in  keeping  the  knowledge  of 
their  distress  from  the  public.  Beyond  the  whisper- 
ings— the  insinuations  that  came  from  Van  Stump, 
43 


with  the  purpose  of  injuring  their  credit,  that  he 
might  bleed  them  the  deeper — nothing  was  known  of 
the  heroism  with  which  father  and  son  fought  the 
fierce  fight — a  hand  to  hand  combat  that  tried  the 
metal  of  their  souls. 

Marion  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  She  felt  thct 
Derringforth  had  neglected  and  avoided  her.  She 
had  never  quite  forgiven  him  for  his  refusal  to  go 
with  her  on  that  California  trip.  He  had  assigned 
no  cause  other  than  that  it  was  impossible  to  get 
away.  This  did  not  satisfy  her.  It  should  not  have 
satisfied  her.  She  felt  that  at  least  she  should  have 
his  confidence. 

"  He  should  have  mine,"  she  told  herself.  "  Love 
should  know  no  secrets."  This  was  her  feeling  at 
that  time.  But  did  she  tell  him  all  about  Burton 
Edwards,  of  his  love  for  her  and  the  impress  he  had 
left  upon  her  own  heart,  that  picturesque,  chivalrous 
son  of  the  West  ?  She  had  intended  to  go  over  it  all 
with  Derringforth,  to  make  a  clean  breast  and  free 
her  heart  from  this  feeling  of  guilt,  a  feeling  that 
clung  to  her  like  a  black  shadow.  He  too  had  in- 
tended to  confide  in  her  the  cause  of  his  inability  to 
accompany  her,  but  the  conversation  took  a  turn  that 
made  this  awkward,  and  she  went  West  with  the 
feeling  that  he  had  grown  cold  and  indifferent. 

The  first  time  she  saw  Derringforth  after  returning 
to  New  York  there  seemed  to  be  no  suitable  oppor- 
tunity to  unburden  her  soul  to  him.  She  tried  to 
44 


shape  matters  so  that  she  could  begin  the  confession 
without  abruptness.  But  all  her  efforts  were  frus- 
trated. He  always  happened  to  say  the  very  thing 
that  she  did  not  wish  him  to  say. 

With  this  thought  in  her  mind  there  was  an  unnat- 
ural restraint  about  her  manner  that  Derringforth 
was  quick  to  notice.  It  had  the  effect  of  chilling  his 
spirits.  Each  experienced  a  feeling  of  awkwardness. 
A  cloud  settled  down  upon  them,  and  the  evening 
went  by  and  Derringforth  was  gone  and  Marion's 
heart  was  heavy. 

Once  the  confession  had  been  put  off,  the  difficul- 
ties in  making  it  increased  in  number  and  strength. 
In  a  few  days  she  had  gone  to  the  country.  Derring- 
forth never  came  there  to  see  her,  though  she  was  but 
a  few  hundred  miles  away.  She  felt  hurt  and  would 
not  allow  herself  to  ask  why  he  could  not  come.  He 
had  chosen  to  stay  away,  and  gave  her  no  reason  for 
doing  so,  save  that  he  could  not  take  an  hour  from 
business.  This  seemed  scarcely  credible. 

The  secret  that  had  haunted  her  at  first  was  less 
troublesome  now.  The  black  shadow  had  been  dis- 
pelled. She  was  back  in  New  York  again.  Der- 
ringforth was  beginning  to  lose  the  boyish  lines  in 
his  face.  He  seemed  a  good  deal  changed — had 
grown  subdued  and  serious.  She  speculated  over  the 
transformation,  and  the  longer  she  pondered  the 
more  distant  he  seemed. 

He,  also,  had  done  much  thinking.  His  heart 
45 


ached  with  an  ache  that  was  death  to  his  hopes.  The 
year  would  be  ended  in  another  week — that  year  that  he 
had  been  asked  to  wait.  Seven  days  more  and  he  would 
go  to  her  and  reopen  the  subject — only  seven  days. 
Oh,  that  a  stroke  of  fortune  might  free  him  from 
the  grasp  of  that  cold,  bony  hand  that  had  him  by  the 
throat  !  Only  this  and  then  he  could  go  to  Marion 
with  that  love  that  had  grown  up  with  him  and  was 
his  life,  fiber  of  his  fiber,  soul  of  his  soul. 


XL 


MARION  sat  at  her  writing  desk,  deep  in  thought. 
A  picture  of  Derringforth  stood  before  her,  and  beside 
it  lay  an  open  letter  from  him.  She  took  up  her  pen 
to  answer  it,  but  there  was  irresolution  in  the  act. 
The  pen  dropped  from  her  fingers,  and  her  head 
drooped  upon  her  hands.  The  letter  had  brought  her 
face  to  face  with  a  doubt  that  had  haunted  her  of  late, 
but  which  she  had  shrunk  from  considering  seriously. 
She  had  drifted  towards  it  day  by  day,  hoping  in 
that  indefinite,  vague  way  that  women  more  than 
men  are  wont  to  hope,  that  some  way,  somehow  the 
question  would  be  solved  for  her. 

She  had  had  a  year  of  social  life  since  the  day  she 
pleaded  with  her  mother  for  permission  to  become  en- 
gaged to  Derringforth.  T.hen  she  saw  nothing  at- 
tractive in  society,  and  prayed  for  the  quiet  little 
home  of  her  dreams,  with  music  and  books  and  the 
man  she  loved.  Now  the  gay  world  throbbed  with  a 
thousand  pulsations  that  fascinated  her.  Her  point 
of  view  had  shifted.  Then  she  was  the  debutante, 
uncertain  of  herself,  looking  upon  social  life  as 
47 


one  sees  a  play.  Now  she  was  a  part  of  that  life, 
with  confidence  and  an  enthusiasm  that  was  irresisti- 
ble. 

We  are  too  apt  to  condemn  that  of  which  we  know 
little  or  nothing.  There  are  few  strictures  one  hears 
more  frequently  than  those  on  the  society  of  which 
the  speaker's  knowledge  is  extremely  limited.  There 
is  a  tendency  to  rail  at  that  which  is  beyond  us.  Every 
phase  of  life  has  its  pleasures,  and  doubtless  those 
who  speak  most  severely  of  the  inner  circle  of  society 
would  gladly  enter  it,  and  once  in,  would  blush  at 
the  thought  of  their  previous  narrowness.  With 
Marion  it  wasn't  that  she  couldn't  enter  it,  but  rather 
that  she  didn't  desire  to.  As  she  saw  it  then  it  was 
unattractive,  insincere — a  butterfly  life  at  best.  Her 
thoughts  had  set  in  a  different  direction. 

But  human  nature  is  malleable.  A  twelvemonth  in 
the  social  world,  and  she  liked  it.  The  air  was  ex- 
hilarating and  delightful.  The  people  were  charm- 
ing, and  there  was  ever  a  kaleidoscopic  variety  of  en- 
tertainments that  precluded  the  presence  of  a  dull 
minute.  There  was  a  mild  intoxication  about  this 
that  lifted  her  above  the  level  of  the  old  days. 

Her  enjoyment  then  was'  one  of  contentment.  Now 
it  was  one  of  excitement.  Some  one  was  always  plan- 
ning and  doing  something  for  her  happiness,  and  she 
exerted  herself  to  give  happiness  in  return.  It  was  a 
high  pressure  life,  in  which  friction  was  reduced  to  a 
minimum,  and  the  hours  flew  by  unnoticed  save  for 
48 


the  sweet  scented  memories  that  warmed  her  heart  to 
quicker  action — memories  of  the  ball  room,  of  social 
triumphs,  of  coaching  trips,  of  riding  and  yachting, 
of  tobogganing  and  the  music  of  the  sleigh  bells,  of  the 
opera  and  dinners  and  receptions,  of  the  attention  she 
had  received,  the  flowers  that  had  been  showered  upon 
her,  and  the  love  she  had  inspired — not  maliciously, 
merely  incidentally,  yet  she  was  not  dull  to  the  pleasures 
it  had  brought  her.  Hers  was  the  heart  of  a  woman, 
susceptible  to  stimulant  so  delicious — a  stimulant  as 
insidious  in  its  effect  as  the  opium  drug. 

She  loved  Derringforth  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
thought  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  love 
any  one  else.  But  was  she  quite  ready  to  give  up  all 
these  pleasures  ? 

"I  couldn't  go  out  without  Ph'il  if  we  were 
engaged,"  she  meditated.  "Even  if  I  could  there 
would  be  no  pleasure  for  me.  The  devotion  that  is 
paid  me  now  would  vanish,  and  I  should  find  myself 
suddenly  grown  frightfully  uninteresting.  There  are 
so  many  good  times  I  could  have  this  winter,"  she 
continued  with  downcast  eyes.  "  The  season  is  only 
fairly  begun,  and  it  was  never  so  gay,  and  my  engage- 
ments run  away  ahead." 

She  took  up  Derringforth's  letter  and  read  it  over 
again. 

"  I  hope  you  can  give  me  next  Thursday  evening," 
he  wrote.  "  The  year  we  were  asked  to  wait  will  have 
passed.  I  know  you  are  very  busy  socially,  but  the 
49 


matter  for  us  to  consider  means  far  more  to  you  and 
me  than  an  evening's  pleasure." 

"  I  wish  he  hadn't  added  this  last  sentence,"  Ma- 
rion said  to  herself  almost  petulantly.  "  It  sounds  as 
if  he  thinks  I  care  more  for  a  good  time  than  for  him 
and  his  happiness.  He  knows  that  is  not  so.  I'm 
sure  I  care  for  him  as  much  as  ever.  Simply  because 
I  want  to  enjoy  a  few  more  months  of  girl  life  doesn't 
prove  that  I  love  Phil  any  the  less.  I'm  sure  it  doesn't. 
If  it  were  necessary  I  would  give  up  everything  for 
him,  and  very  gladly,  but  as  mama  says,  there  is  no 
good  reason  for  rushing  into  the  cares  of  married  life. 
A  year  ago  I  couldn't  think  she  was  right,  but  I  am 
older  now  and  have  had  a  chance  to  see  something  of 
the  world.  Yes,  mama  was  right — think  of  what  I 
should  have  missed  if  I  had  become  engaged  then,  and 
— suppose  I  were  to  become  engaged  now  !  ' '  Marion 
spoke  these  last  words  with  a  little  shudder,  and  in 
desperation  got  up  from  her  desk  and  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  into  the  street. 

A  cold  east  wind  was  blowing,  and  snow  was 
beginning  to  fall.  A  beggar  rang  the  basement 
bell  of  the  house  opposite.  He  was  thinly  and 
shabbily  dressed,  and  was  white  with  age.  He 
came  away  from  the  rich  man's  door  with  a  piece  of 
dry  bread,  which  he  began  eating.  Marion  saw  his 
face  as  he  gained  the  sidewalk.  It  was  pinched  and 
blue,  but  withal  showed  lines  of  refinement.  Her 
heart  ached  for  him  as  he  toddled  along  the  street, 
5° 


facing  the  cold,  piercing,  wintry  wind,  and  gnawing 
at  the  bread  as  he  went. 

"It  is  cruel,"  she  cried,  "  to  let  a  human  being 
suffer  in  this  way — turning  him  off  with  a  crust  of 
cold  bread  on  a  bitter  day  like  this;  "  and  she  flew 
down  stairs  and  sent  the  butler  after  the  old  man. 

Marion  met  him  at  the  basement  door  and  asked  him 
into  the  kitchen,  where  a  hot  fire  was  burning  in  the 
great  range. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  young  lady,  to  send  for  me," 
said  the  beggar,  still  shivering  from  the  cold  that 
chilled  him  to  the  bone. 

"  I  saw  you  from  my  warm  room,"  answered  Ma- 
rion ;  "  you  are  hungry  and  cold." 

Her  kind  words  and  soft,  sweet  voice  were  too  much 
for  the  old  man.  He  had  struggled  to  keep  back  the 
tears,  but  now  they  stole  down  his  hollow  cheeks.  He 
brushed  them  away  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and 
said,  speaking  as  one  who  had  known  something  of  re- 
finement, "  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me.  This  is  all 
so  unexpected.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  such  kindness, 
but  I  am  grateful  to  you,  young  lady,  very  grateful." 

Marion  had  a  hot  meal  prepared,  which  consisted  of 
a  sirloin  steak,  hashed  potatoes  browned,  dry  toast,  and 
coffee  with  cream.  This  was  the  beggar's  breakfast, 
and  Marion  served  it  with  her  own  hands.  Never 
man  ate  with  greater  relish  or  the  expression  of  more 
sincere  thanks.  Every  look  and  act  showed  gratitude, 
and  Marion  learned  something  of  that  finest  sense  of 


happiness — the  happiness  that  comes  from  helping 
others. 

With  a  heart  glowing  with  warmth  she  went  back 
to  her  desk  and  again  took  up  her  pen  to  answer 
Derringforth'snote.  Her  irresolution  was  gone. 

"  I  am  glad  you  want  me  to  save  Thursday  evening 
for  you,"  she  began.  "  It  shall  be  yours,  and  yours 
only.  I  shall  be  at  home  to  no  one  else.  I  know  I 
am  very  busy,  as  you  say,  but  it  is  not  such  a  hardship 
for  me  to  give  up  an  evening  to  you,  Phil,  though  I 
miss  the  greatest  event  of  the  season.  Come  in  early, 
as  you  used  to.  You  shouldn't  be  ceremonious  with 
me — we  never  were  ceremonious  with  each  other,  you 
know,  and  it  doesn't  befit  us." 

She  ran  her  eye  over  the  note  when  it  was  finished. 
"  There,  that  is  more  as  I  should  talk  to  Phil,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  Poor  dear  Phil  !  "  and  she  caught 
up  the  photograph  before  her  and  kissed  it  with  girlish 
impulsiveness. 

At  four  o'clock  Marion  began  a  round  of  receptions. 
She  took  with  her  a  subscription  paper  and  importuned 
her  men  friends  in  behalf  of  the  beggar  she  had  fed. 
Her  father's  name  headed  the  list,  with  fifty  dollars 
opposite  it.  Whether  skirting  along  on  the  edge  of 
disaster  or  hoarding  millions  with  the  greed  of  a  miser, 
it  mattered  not  a  whit,  none  dared  refuse  her.  She 
told  the  story  of  the  morning,  how  she  had  seen  the 
old  man  begging  a  morsel  of  bread  and  shivering  from 
the  cold  wind  ;  told  of  her  sending  for  him,  and  of  his 
52 


gratitude,  told  of  the  misfortune  that  had  brought  him 
to  beggary — a  man  who  had  known  the  comforts  of 
home  and  the  refining  and  sustaining  influence  of  a 
wife. 

Some  there  were  who  feigned  skepticism  and  at- 
tempted to  force  the  laugh  upon  her,  saying  that  she 
had  been  cleverly  taken  in.  But  this  was  a  ruse  that 
fell  short,  and  all  who  had  thus  sought  to  protect  their 
gold,  made  quick  to  recover  the  ground  they  had  lost. 
This  bit  of  strategy,  this  vile  pretense,  is  the  shield 
behind  which  meanness  seeks  shelter  ;  it  is  the  resort 
of  the  hypocrite  and  the  miser,  the  subterfuge  of  him 
whose  miserable  soul  knows  not  the  throb  of  a  kindly 
impulse. 

Honest  poverty  starves  and  is  trampled  under  foot 
before  the  eyes  of  such  men,  and  never  a  twinge  of 
conscience  ruffles  the  surface  of  their  cold  blood.  It 
is  only  when  forced,  in  self  defense,  in  sustaining  pride 
or  place,  that  their  purse  strings  unloose  to  charity. 
It  was  pressure  such  as  this  that  drew  from  flinty  hearts 
subscriptions  to  Marion's  paper.  Cornered  beyond 
escape,  they  signed  their  names  with  excess  of  pleas- 
ure— a  bad  counterfeit  of  the  feeling  of  the  generous 
giver — cursing  inwardly,  meanwhile,  the  beggar  and 
the  fair  hand  that  had  filched  their  dollars  from  them. 

Van  Stump  was  one  of  these,  and  curiously  enough 
at  the  mention  of  the  old  man's  name  he  was  a  good 
deal  startled.  Marion  saw  this,  and  noted  the  sudden 
paleness  of  his  face. 

53 


"Why,  Mr.  Van  Stump,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  deep 
surprise,  "  you  don't  know  him?  " 

"  Know  him — I  know  this  beggar  ?  ' '  answered  Van 
Stump.  "  Well,  well,  this  is  good  !  "  and  he  laughed 
a  forced  sort  of  laugh. 

"  I  was  mistaken,  I  am  sure — you  will  pardon  me, 
I  know,"  replied  Marion. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Van  Stump,  "and  I  hope  you 
will  pardon  me  for  laughing  at  your  question — the 
idea  struck  me  as  so  odd,  you  know.  But  to  be  serious, 
now,  how  much  money  do  you  wish  to  raise — a  com- 
petency for  the  old  fellow  to  retire  on  ?  " 

"  You  shouldn't  banter  in  that  way,  Mr.  Van 
Stump.  I  am  interested  in  this  little  bit  of  charity, 
and  hope  you  will  help  me." 

"  Certainly  I  will  help  you,  but  you  have  not 
answered  my  question  as  to  the  amount  you  hope  to 
raise  for  this  deserving  charity." 

There  was  a  stress  on  the  words  "  deserving  charity  " 
that  nettled  Marion. 

"  The  sum  I  have  undertaken  to  raise  is  only  three 
hundred  dollars,"  she  answered  diplomatically,  "and 
I  have  a  good  part  of  it  already.  This  amount  will 
enable  me  to  get  the  old  man  into  the  Chapin  Home 
for  the  Aged  and  Infirm,  and  once  in  there  there  will 
be  no  further  expense.  He  will  be  well  taken  care 
of,  clothed  and  fed.  Now  isn't  this  a  charity  worth 
while?" 

"  Most  excellent,"  answered  Van  Stump.  "  In  fact 
54 


it  strikes  me  that  something  of  the  sort  would  be  a 
good  thing  for  every  man  too  lazy  to  work." 

"  I  think  you  can  say  the  most  sarcastic  things,  Mr. 
Van  Stump.  I  shall  be  afraid  of  you  if  you  go  on 
much  longer  in  this  way. ' ' 

"  I  certainly  could  not  permit  that,  Miss  Kingsley. 
But  you  see  it  strikes  me  as  so  unaccountably  odd  to 
see  you  taking  such  an  interest  in  this  old  beggar. 
Why  in  this  one  more  than  others,  and  why  not  give 
up  all  your  time  to  beggars  ? — you  are  such  a  charm- 
ing little — shall  I  say  it? — beggar  yourself.  No  one 
could  resist  your  appeals. ' ' 

"  How  you  do  like  to  tease  !  But  I  shall  not  al- 
low you  to  tease  me.  The  reason  I  feel  a  special 
interest  in  this  old  man  is  that  his  case  is  peculiarly 
pathetic. ' ' 

' '  I  suppose  every  beggar  thinks  his  case  is  peculiarly 
pathetic,"  replied  Van  Stump. 

His  sarcasm  began  to  be  irritating  to  Marion,  and 
casting  a  quick  glance  at  him,  she  said  : 

"  When  one  gets  to  a  point  where  he  has  no  faith 
in  any  one  or  anything,  I  pity  him.  As  for  myself, 
I  do  not  doubt  this  old  man's  story.  There  are 
sharks  in  this  world  besides  those  of  the  sea.  It  was 
one  of  these  that  brought  him  to  be  a  beggar." 

Van  Stump  winced — merely  perceptibly — and  with 

wonderful   coolness  laughed  as  if  much  amused   at 

Marion's  earnestness.     But  he  had  had  quite  enough, 

and  lest  he  might  say  something  he  would  regret,  or 

55 


in  some  way  show  feeling  that  would  arouse  her  sus- 
picions, he  deemed  it  wise  to  cut  short  the  conversa- 
tion, which  he  did  by  putting  his  name  down  on  her 
paper  for  a  liberal  subscription. 

"  You  are  very  generous,"  said  Marion,  delighted 
at  the  amount  he  had  given.  "  I  thank  you  so  much — 
just  think,  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  already 
— isn't  it  sweet  of  everybody  to  help  me  so  will- 
ingly? " 

A  few  more  subscriptions  were  obtained  before 
Marion  returned  home,  and  the  sum  then  lacking  to 
make  up  the  three  hundred  dollars  she  herself  sub- 
scribed. 

"  This  world  isn't  so  large  after  all,"  muttered 
Van  Stump,  when  Marion  had  left  him.  "  Old 
Hammersly  turned  up  at  the  Kingsleys',"  he  went 
on,  his  brow  darkening,  "  and  of  all  things  that  that 
girl  should  take  him  into  the  house  and  listen  to  his 
woes  and  then  come  to  me  to  help  him — to  me,  of  all 
men.  There  is  a  fatality  in  it,  upon  my  head,  I  be- 
lieve there  is.  Well,  may  the  money  do  the  old  beg- 
gar good — I  can  afford  him  this  much  as  an  item 
of  interest — the  principal  he  will  not  be  likely  to 
get." 


XII. 

MRS.  KINGSLEY  dreaded  the  approaching  interview 
between  Marion  and  Derringforth.  A  year  before 
Phil  was  a  favorite  with  her.  But  now  she  felt  differ- 
ently. He  had  changed  a  good  deal,  it  seemed  to 
her,  and  for  the  worse. 

She  was  partially  right.  Derringforth  had  changed, 
and  especially  towards  her.  He  had  never  forgiven 
her  for  insisting  upon  the  postponement  of  his  engage- 
ment. She  had  forfeited  all  the  admiration  he  had 
formerly  felt  for  her.  He  did  not  seek  to  disguise 
his  feelings.  Coldness  begets  coldness,  usually.  It 
had  done  so  in  this  case.  There  was  cordial  dislike 
between  them — a  lack  of  respect,  even,  on  his  part, 
for  she  had  become  the  embodiment  of  vanity  as  he 
saw  her — a  worshiper  of  the  fetish  of  society. 

Here  was  tangible  cause  for  his  feeling ;  she  was 
less  fortunate  in  that  she  could  not  formulate  her  ob- 
jections to  him  on  solid  grounds.  Feel  towards  him  as 
she  might  she  must  at  least  respect  him.  His  sturdy 
character  commanded  this.  But  a  woman  requires 
less  to  build  a  case  upon  than  man.  What  she  lacks 
57 


in  evidence  is  made  up  in  indefinite  little  somethings, 
as  shadowy  oftentimes  as  the  mist  vanishing  before 
the  sun. 

Marion  was  aware  of  the  strained  relations  between 
her  mother  and  Derringforth,  but  she  had  never  until 
now  realized  the  extent  of  the  rupture. 

"  So  you  have  canceled  your  engagement  for 
Thursday  evening  with  the  Harburys,"  said  Mrs. 
Kingsley. 

There  was  that  in  her  manner  and  in  the  inflection 
of  her  voice  that  made  plain  her  feeling. 

' '  Yes, ' '  answered  Marion  quietly.  ' '  It  seemed 
to  me  Phil  had  a  better  claim  upon  me. ' ' 

"And  you  coolly  broke  an  engagement  for  that 
boy,  and  with  the  Harburys — of  all  people  the  Har- 
burys. ' ' 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marion,  resenting  in  her  manner 
the  reference  to  Derringforth  as  ' '  that  boy. ' ' 

"You  have  made  such  a  mistake,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Kingsley,  "  such  a  mistake.  The  Harburys  will 
never  get  over  it,  and  they  entertain  so  generously. ' ' 

"  There  are  some  things  for  one  to  think  of  besides 
entertainments,"  returned  Marion.  "When  Phil 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife  you  wanted  the  engagement 
postponed  for  a  year.  The  year  will  be  up  Thurs- 
day. ' ' 

"Did  I  say  one  year,  only  one  year?"  replied 
Mrs.  Kingsley,  an  expression  of  alarm  coming  to  her 
face. 

58 


"  I  think  Phil  would  be  justified  in  feeling  that  a 
year  was  meant;  not  more." 

"  Didn't  I  say  '  a  year  at  least '  ?  I  took  partic- 
ular note  of  what  I  said.  No  one  would  be  warranted 
in  construing  that  as  simply  one  year.  I  felt  then,  as 
I  feel  now,  that  a  girl  should  not  be  married  before 
she  is  twenty  five.  You  know  something  of  social 
life  now,  and  are  in  a  position  to  enjoy  yourself. 
You  have  made  a  good  impression,  and  your  second 
year  in  society  should  give  you  a  good  deal  more 
pleasure  than  the  first.  Have  you  not  enjoyed  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  enjoyed  it  very  much,"  answered  Marion. 

"  I  am  sure  you  have,  and  I  cannot  imagine  that 
you  would  wish  to  give  up  all  the  good  times  you  can 
see  ahead,"  continued  Mrs.  Kingsley,  placing  her  arm 
affectionately  around  her  daughter  as  she  spoke. 

' '  I  should  like  a  few  more  months  of  such  pleas- 
ure if  it  were  not  for  disappointing  Phil." 

"  But  you  would  give  up  all  these  pleasures  for 
him  ?  ' ' 

"  That  would  be  right,  wouldn't  it?  "  said  Marion, 
lifting  her  eyes  so  that  they  looked  straight  into  her 
mother's. 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  be  as  generous  with 
you?"  responded  Mrs.  Kingsley,  evading  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  he  would.  Phil  would  do  any- 
thing for  me." 

"  Suppose,  then,  you  put  him  to  the  test  and  ask- 
59 


him  to  wait  a  while  longer.  This  would  require  much 
less  sacrifice  on  his  part  than  you  would  foolishly 
make  for  him.  What  has  he  done  for  your  pleasure 
during  the  last  year  ?  Is  it  from  him  you  have  had 
the  most  attention?  He  couldn't  even  come  from 
New  York  to  see  you  this  summer,  while  Burton 
Edwards  came  all  the  way  from  California.  You 
cannot  afford  to  be  blind,  Marion — blind." 

Mrs.  Kingsley  continued  this  line  of  argument  for 
a  while  and  then  took  the  matter  up  in  a  personal 
sense.  She  was  careful  now  not  to  say  anything  that 
would  arouse  Marion's  antagonism,  but,  proceeding 
cautiously,  worked  on  her  sympathy,  gradually 
bringing  to  bear  her  own  feeling  against  Derring- 
forth. 

Marion  was  bewildered  with  conflicting  emotions. 
The  dread  of  disappointing  Phil  on  the  one  hand, 
on  the  other  her  duty  to  her  mother,  and  the  array 
of  girl  pleasures  stretching  far  out  in  dazzling  attrac- 
tiveness. The  following  day  the  matter  came  up 
again,  and  now  Mrs.  Kingsley  promised  Marion  a 
year  abroad  if  she  would  refrain  from  binding  herself 
to  Derringforth  just  then.  This  was  a  telling  argu- 
ment, for  Marion  had  set  her  heart  on  revisiting 
Europe.  Her  mother  enlarged  upon  the  benefits 
and  pleasures  of  such  a  trip. 

"We  will  sail  with  the  beginning  of  Lent,"  she 
said,  "  only  a  few  weeks  off  now.  Your  father  prom- 
ised me  last  night  that  he  would  go  if  you  would. 
60 


He  needs  the  change,  and  it  would  do  us  all  a  world 
of  good." 

In  the  midst  of  this  discussion  matters  were  com- 
plicated by  the  unexpected  arrival  of  Burton  Ed- 
wards. He  came  in  with  that  breezy,  inspiring  way 
of  his,  flooding  the  room  with  sunshine.  His  was  a 
nature  that  was  as  buoyant  as  the  crisp  autumn  air, 
and  all  about  him  felt  the  stimulus  of  his  presence. 

"  So  glad  to  see  you — a  delightful  surprise — how 
well  you  are  looking — are  you  right  from  home  ? — 
why  didn't  you  let  us  know  you  were  coming  ?  "  and 
like  utterances,  a  dozen  or  more,  were  flung  at  Ed- 
wards in  quick  succession  by  Marion  and  her  mother. 

He  was  powerless  for  a  minute  to  get  in  a  word 
edgewise. 

"  Yes,  right  from  home,"  he  said,  when  a  break  in 
feminine  enthusiasm  came.  "  Couldn't  stay  away 
any  longer — Jove,  how  good  it  looks  to  see  you  both 
once  more." 

"  And  how  good  it  seems  to  see  you,"  was  the  an- 
swer in  concert.  "  Come,  sit  here  beside  me," 
added  Marion,  her  face  beaming  with  pleasure,  "and 
tell  me  all  about  yourself.  Take  this  chair,  mama. 
How  is  every  one  at  home  ?  ' ' 

To  Mrs.  Kingsley  Edwards'  opportune  coming 
was  as  the  hand  of  rescue  stretched  forth  from  out  that 
realm  impenetrable  to  human  eyes.  She  saw  in  him 
an  argument  more  effective  with  Marion  than  all  the 
force  of  her  own  reasoning  and  pleading.  This  was 
61 


the  chief  source  of  her  delight,  though  she  was  genu- 
inely glad  of  an  opportunity  to  entertain  him  at  her 
home,  and  at  this  season  of  the  year  when  New  York 
was  at  its  best. 

In  this  respect  Marion's  pleasure  at  his  coming  was 
no  less  than  that  of  her  mother.  But  there  was  some- 
thing beyond  this.  The  impress  that  Burton  Edwards 
had  left  upon  her  heart  had  not  yet  been  effaced. 
His  sudden  appearance  thrilled  her  with  that  delicious 
sensation  he  had  at  first  inspired.  It  was  as  unlike 
the  feeling  she  had  for  Derringforth  as  the  smooth 
flowing  stream  of  deep  water  is  unlike  the  mountain 
torrent,  leaping,  tumbling,  laughing  as  it  dashes 
from  crag  to  crag.  The  one  was  a  quiet,  restful,  ra- 
tional emotion  ;  the  other  was  turbulent,  stimulating, 
exhilarating. 

The  sentiment  that  bound  her  to  Derringforth  had 
begun  with  the  beginning  of  intelligence.  Its  growth 
had  been  gradual,  natural,  healthful.  Entering  the 
heart  thus,  it  had  never  caused  her  to  experience  that 
intoxication  that  comes  from  a  sudden  burst  of  pas- 
sion. And  what  is  there  that  so  thrills  the  soul  of  a 
woman — so  completely  transports  her  to  the  acme  of 
delight — as  the  love  making  of  a  strong,  chivalrous 
man,  whose  very  nature  throbs  with  impassioned  sen- 
timent? This  is  the  sort  of  man  that  Marion  met  on 
that  California  ranch — the  sort  of  man  that  had  sud- 
denly appeared  before  her  at  a  moment  when  she 
was  debating  with  herself  whether  to  yield  to  her 
62 


mother's  appeal  or  to  make  glad  the  heart  of  Der- 
ringforth. 

"  Phil  has  the  better  claim  on  me,"  she  reasoned. 
"It  wouldn't  be  right  to  disappoint  him  a  second 
time,  though,  as  mama  says,  the  postponement  was 
not  limited  positively  to  one  year.  '  One  year  at 
least,'  that  isn't  really  one  year — no,  Phil  couldn't 
claim  that,  and  he  wouldn't,  I  know  he  wouldn't. 
Phil  would  never  charge  me  with  bad  faith  without 
good  cause.  But  I  wonder — I  half  feel  that  he  would 
have  cause.  I  thought  myself  that  a  year  was  meant, 
but  I  can  see  mama's  way  of  looking  at  it.  I  remem- 
ber her  words.  They  were  as  she  says.  But  then,  I 
talked  to  Phil  as  if  I  thought  a  year  was  meant,  and 
really  I  did  think  so.  :  Oh,  dear,  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  !  I  cannot  feel  that  I  should  disappoint  mama 
— she  lives  only  for  me.  And  then  there  is  so  much 
going  on,  and  my  engagements — such  a  lot  of  good 
times !  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  be  asked  to  lose 
them  all.  Phil  might  be  a  little  reasonable.  I  won- 
der if  he  would  really  give  up  as  much  for  me  as  I 
would  have  to  give  up  for  him.  Mama  says  I  ought 
to  put  him  to  the  test.  But  I  don't  need  to  put  him 
to  the  test.  I  know  that  Phil  would  do  anything  for 
me.  I  won't  allow  myself  to  think  of  him  in  any 
such  way,  poor  fellow.  I  wish  we  had  been  engaged 
last  year,  before  I  ever  tasted  the  pleasures  of  society. 
Then  I  wanted  to  marry  him,  and  would  have  been 
content,  but  now — weH,  I  want  to  marry  him  yet — 
63 


of  course  I  do,  but  —  if  it  could  only  be  postponed 
a  little  while  longer  on  mama's  account — I  cannot 
get  over  her  foolish  prejudice  against  Phil,  and  he 
blames  her — the  idea,  when  mama  is  doing  so  much 
to  make  me  happy !  Phil  should  think  of  this. 
Well,  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right  some  time — some 
time."  She  repeated  the  words  with  a  sigh  that  ex- 
pressed the  depth  of  her  perplexity. 


XIII. 

THE  current  that  had  set  so  fiercely  against  the 
Derringforths  could  not  be  turned  back  by  any  ordi- 
nary means  in  the  space  of  seven  days.  They  had 
struggled  with  it  month  after  month  and  had  barely 
kept  their  heads  above  water.  But  these  seven  days 
meant  more  to  young  Derringforth  than  all  the  three 
hundred  and  odd  in  which  he  had  been  buffeted  by 
the  breakers.  He  had  kept  up  bravely  throughout 
the  year,  his  mind  centered  upon  that  day  when  the 
enforced  postponement  of  his  engagement  to  Marion 
would  be  over.  It  had  been  a  bright  beacon  to  him, 
cheering  him  in  the  darkest  hours  of  the  firm's  dis- 
tress. Viewing  its  approach  while  yet  a  great  way 
off,  there  was  abundant  hope  in  his  youthful  heart 
that  long  before  its  coming  he  and  his  father  would 
have  reached  smooth  water. 

With  this  conviction  he  counted  the  days  as  they 
passed,  impatient  at  their  slow  tread.  Would  that 
long  hoped  for  hour  never  come — that  hour  when  all 
would  be  brightness  and  joy  ?  The  weeks  continued 
on  in  their  measured  way  until  one  day  Derringforth 
65 


found  that  but  one  remained.  Then  it  was  that  he 
awoke  in  the  agony  of  his  soul,  realizing  that  time, 
in  its  steady  march,  so  slow  to  his  impatient  eyes, 
had  outstripped  him. 

He  was  not  ready.  The  hand  of  Shylock  still 
held  the  house  of  Derringforth  in  its  relentless  grasp. 
How  simple  a  thing  it  had  seemed  to  him,  with  yet 
many  months  to  spare,  to  unloose  and  hurl  forever 
from  view  these  hated  fingers  of  the  money  lender  ! 
Youth  is  ever  thus  hopeful.  That  "  some  way,"  that 
"somehow,"  indefinite  and  vague,  had  been  no  less 
an  illusion  to  him  than  to  Marion.  Until  now  he 
had  never  felt  so  keenly  the  torture  of  his  position. 

"  Only  seven  days,"  he  said,  and  in  the  words,  as 
he  spoke  them,  there  was  the  cry  of  an  aching  heart, 
the  despair  of  hopelessness. 

He  lighted  a  cigar,  put  on  his  overcoat,  and  went 
out  into  the  street.  He  had  no  definite  object  be- 
yond seeking  diversion  of  some  kind — anything  to 
take  his  thoughts  from  himself.  It  was  nearly  nine 
o'clock.  He  had  been  walking  for  perhaps  fifteen 
minutes  when  he  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  Kingsleys* 
and  pulled  the  bell.  He  had  passed  by  the  house 
once  before  with  the  resolve  not  to  call,  but  now  he 
did  call,  and  only  to  find  that  Marion  had  gone  to 
the  opera.  He  felt  more  dejected  than  ever,  and  yet 
in  away  he  was  glad  that  he  did  not  see  Marion. 

"  What  should  I  have  said  to  her  if  I  had  seen 
her?  "  he  asked  himself.  "  She  would  have  discov- 
66 


ered  that  something  is  troubling  me,  and  she  must  not 
know — not  yet.  I  cannot  make  a  home  for  her,  and 
she  shall  not  make  one  for  me.  It  is  I  who  shall 
have  to  request  this  time  that  the  engagement  be  put 
off  or — I  had  almost  said,  given  up — but  I  won't  say 
it — I  can't — it  shall  not  be;"  and  Derringforth 
pressed  his  hand  to  his  throbbing  head. 

He  was  walking  rapidly  down  Fifth  Avenue.  The 
cold,  crisp,  wintry  air  and  the  invigorating  exercise 
began  to  act  as  a  tonic  to  his  nerves.  His  pace 
quickened,  and  with  the  accelerated  motion  came  ad- 
ditional activity  of  the  brain.  "There  yet  remain 
seven  days,"  he  said  to  himself  finally.  "Isn't  it 
possible  for  us  to  free  ourselves  in  this  time  from  that 
accursed  Strum?  Then  I  could  go  to  Marion  the 
happiest  fellow  in  the  world.  If  I  could  only  do 
this,"  he  exclaimed — and  the  thought  in  its  inception 
was  to  him  as  a  spark  of  light  flashed  upon  one  grop- 
ing in  darkness.  It  gave  him  a  thrill  of  hope.  He 
turned  it  over  and  over  in  his  mind.  His  face  lost 
its  despair.  He  was  warming  to  the  idea,  and  his 
soul  burned  with  enthusiasm. 

"  I  will  do  something  worthy  of  the  girl  I  love," 
he  said  to  himself.  His  cheeks  were  flushed  and 
there  was  in  his  eyes  the  fire  of  determination. 

"I  will  have  no  more  of  this  miserable  drifting, 

like  a  helpless  child,"   he  went  on  almost  fiercely. 

"  There  is  yet  time  for  me  to  prove  myself  a  man. 

I'll  force  the  fight,  and  win  or  perish.     This  slow 

67 


death  is  not  the  death  for  me.  There  is  no  courage, 
no  bravery  in  it.  I  wonder  men  in  these  days  ever 
win  the  love  of  women.  Time  was  when  they  dared 
anything  for  love,  and  they  were  right.  The  race 
has  degenerated.  I  hate  this  helplessness — this  wait- 
ing from  day  to  day  and  from  week  to  week  for 
relief.  And  matters  are  all  the  while  getting  worse 
with  us — our  very  life  blood  is  being  squeezed  out 
by  a  Shylock.  Better  make  one  final  effort  and  let 
the  worst  happen  that  can  happen.  Anything  will 
be  preferable  to  this  hideous  nightmare ;  this  hover- 
ing over  the  verge  of  a  precipice. ' ' 

This  was  the  utterance  of  a  mind  intoxicated  by 
a  sudden  hope,  an  outburst  of  desperation.  It  was 
either  give  up  Marion  and  acknowledge  to  her  the 
financial  distress  of  his  father  and  himself,  or  by  some 
master  stroke  free  themselves  from  the  octopus  that 
was  dragging  them  to  their  doom. 

An  hour  later  Derringforth  had  returned  home. 
The  fire  in  the  library  grate  burned  low.  Except  for 
a  little  spot  in  the  center  there  was  no  ruddy  glow — 
nothing  to  cheer  the  eye.  He  drew  up  closer  to  the 
expiring  embers  and  stretched  his  hands  out  over 
them  to  catch  the  little  warmth  that  arose.  His 
father  and  mother  had  gone  to  bed.  He  was  alone. 
The  wind  struck  the  windows  and  went  whistling 
around  the  corner.  Derringforth  shivered,  and 
walked  across  the  room  and  looked  at  the  thermome- 
ter. The  temperature  was  fifty  seven. 
68 


"  I  thought  it  felt  chilly,"  he  said  to  himself,  rub- 
bing his  hands  together.  He  went  back  to  the  fire, 
and,  leaning  forward  over  the  grate,  stirred  the  coals 
aimlessly  with  the  poker.  His  mind  had  begun  to 
react.  The  mental  intoxication  had  spent  itself. 
The  castle  was  breaking  up  before  his  eyes.  He 
watched  it  intently,  and  as  one  part  after  another  fell 
away  from  the  main  structure  deep  shadows  settled 
upon  his  face.  The  poker  fell  listlessly  from  his 
hand,  but  still  he  sat  there,  bent  forward  as  before, 
his  eyes  not  fixed  upon  the  dying  embers  but  peering 
into  space. 

His  spirits  had  sunk  to  the  lowest  ebb.  It  was  the 
rebound  from  the  heights  of  a  little  while  before. 
Marion  had  never  seemed  so  far  from  him  as  at  this 
instant.  The  thought  of  giving  her  up  was  torture  to 
him.  A  strange  sensation  came  over  him.  It  was 
not  faintness,  but  something  akin  to  it ;  something 
infinitely  worse.  He  inhaled  long  breaths,  but  the 
pressure  upon  his  heart  remained  like  a  thousand 
pound  weight.  In  all  the  years  he  had  known  Marion 
not  once  had  she  been  so  sweet  to  his  eyes  as  now. 
He  longed  to  go  to  her  and  clasp  her  in  his  arms  and 
tell  her  of  his  love,  and  to  talk  of  the  home  that  had 
been  their  dream. 

But  even  as  he  thought  a  shadow  arose  before  his 

vision,  hiding  the  face  of  Marion.     He  started  back 

with  a  shudder.     It  was  the  shadow  of  Strum.     It 

had  stolen  in  upon  Derringforth  like  a  thief  in  the 

6g 


stillness  of  the  night,  and  there  it  stood  cringing 
before  him  in  all  its  hideousness.  He  saw  the  sharp, 
cadaverous  features,  the  thin,  uncanny  hands,  the 
narrow,  shrunken  chest,  and  the  uneven  shoulders, 
one  drooping  far  below  the  other. 

Derringforth  turned  his  eyes  from  the  abhorrent 
sight,  and  with  an  unconscious  gesture  of  the  hand, 
as  if  to  bid  the  accursed  shadow  leave  him,  rose  and 
walked  back  and  forth  in  the  room.  The  great  clock 
in  the  corner  struck  the  half  hour.  The  hands  were 
crawling  on  towards  twelve.  The  wind  still  beat 
against  the  windows,  and  baffled,  shrieked  madly  as  it 
sped  away.  He  took  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and 
began  winding  it.  He  was  standing  now  beside  the 
library  table.  An  evening  paper  lay  upon  it.  His 
eyes  fell  listlessly  upon  the  printed  words,  but  he  saw 
nothing.  The  winding  of  the  watch  continued  me- 
chanically. The  end  of  the  spring  had  been  reached, 
and  Derringforth  was  about  to  turn  away  when  sud- 
denly his  attention  was  fixed  upon  a  single  headline — 
' '  A  Fortune  Made  in  a  Day. ' ' 

He  took  up  the  paper  and  read  the  item  eagerly. 
It  was  the  story  of  a  man  who  but  a  few  months 
before  was  bankrupt.  Wall  Street  was  the  scene  of 
his  dramatic  triumph.  A  vivid  account  of  his  deal- 
ings was  given  in  detail.  Derringforth' s  heart  beat 
fast  as  his  eyes  ran  down  the  printed  column.  His 
breast  began  to  heave  with  hope.  His  fingers 
twitched  nervously,  and  when  he  had  finished  the 
70 


account,  he  exclaimed,  almost  shouted,  the  words, 
' '  This  is  the  way  out  for  me — this  is  the  way  out  ! 
What  one  man  has  done,  another  can  do." 

He  went  to  bed  that  night  and  into  the  land  of 
dreams.  He  was  in  the  arena.  The  clash  of  bull  and 
bear  in  their  mad  struggle  held  him  spell  bound.  The 
music  of  the  exchange's  thousand  voices  thrilled  him, 
and  as  he  slept  a  smile  hovered  on  his  lips  and  tho 
light  of  hope  was  in  his  face. 


XIV. 

"  HERE  is  something  I  wish  you  would  read,  father, ' ' 
said  Phil  the  following  morning,  and  he  held  up  a 
cutting  from  a  newspaper. 

Mr.  Derringforth  put  on  his  glasses.  "  Oh,  yes,  I 
saw  that  last  night,"  he  replied  indifferently,  and 
turned  to  his  mail. 

They  were  at  their  office.  Phil  felt  a  chill  pass  over 
him. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  wonderful  that  any  one  could 
recover  so  quickly  from  bankruptcy  ?  "  he  ventured. 

''Yes,  rather  wonderful,"  answered  the  father, 
running  his  eye  over  a  long  statement  of  account. 

' '  Wall  Street  seems  to  be  the  place  to  make  money. 
Did  you  read  this  list  of  names  of  men  who  have 
come  up  from  nothing  and  are  now  worth  millions  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  saw  them — twenty  three  thousand  dollars," 
he  went  on,  his  brow  knit.  "  It  doesn't  seem  pos- 
sible that  it  can  be  so  much.  Here,  Phil,  I  wish  you 
would  run  over  these  figures  and  see  if  the  footing  is 
correct." 

Young  Derringforth  took  the  statement,  but  he  was 
72 


in  no  mood  for  addition.  He  was  annoyed  at  his 
father's  lack  of  interest.  His  brain  was  burning  with 
the  desire  for  speculation — for  something  more  dra- 
matic than  the  usual  dig,  dig,  dig,  with  figures  and 
correspondence.  He  ran  half  way  up  one  column 
and  forgot  his  count.  He  began  again,  and  then 
stopped  suddenly. 

'•'  Why  didn't  you  go  into  Wall  Street  instead 
of  this  business?"  he  said,  turning  again  to  his 
father. 

"Why  do  you  ask  this  question?"  replied  Mr. 
Derringforth,  looking  up  quickly  from  his  desk. 

"  I  asked  thinking  perhaps  your  name  might  have 
been  among  the  millionaires  in  the  list." 

"  These  men  are  the  exceptions.  The  chances  are 
a  hundred  to  one,  and  more,  that  I  would  have  lost 
everything  had  I  ventured  into  Wall  Street.  I  have 
made  a  great  many  mistakes  in  my  life,  but  never  the 
mistake  of  dabbling  in  stock  speculation. ' ' 

"  Don' t  you  think  this  is  a  good  year  for  excep- 
tions ?"  asked  Phil,  ignoring  the  latter  part  of  his 
father's  remarks. 

"  Well,  hardly,  if  you  mean  millionaire  exceptions. 
But  what  has  got  into  your  head,  Phil  ?  Why  are 
you  so  interested  in  Wall  Street  all  of  a  sudden  ?  I'm 
sure  you  can't  think  of  going  into  speculation  with  the 
burden  we  already  have  on  our  shoulders." 

"  Isn't  Wall  Street  the  place  to  get  rid  of  burdens 
such  as  we  are  carrying  ?  " 
73 


'-'  I  hope  you  are  not  serious, ' '  answered  Mr.  Der- 
ringforth,  amazed. 

"  Yes,  I  am  serious.  The  beauty  of  speculation  is 
that  one  doesn't  have  to  wait  a  lifetime  to  find  out  if 
he  is  rich  or  poor.  While  we  have  been  struggling 
along  here  a  hundred  fortunes  have  been  made  in  the 
Street." 

' '  And  how  many  fortunes  do  you  suppose  have  been 
lost  there  in  the  same  time  ?  ' ' 

"  I  don't  know.  Some  men  will  lose  money  any- 
where and  in  anything.  But  this  is  a  pretty  good  list 
of  successful  operators. ' ' 

"  Yes,  so  it  is,  but  as  compared  to  the  list  of  wrecks 
it  would  be  as  a  foot  rule  to  Bunker  Hill  monument." 

"  Isn't  that  putting  it  rather  strong  ?  "  replied  Phil 
incredulously. 

"  No,  not  a  bit.  The  comparison  is  not  a  distor- 
tion of  facts." 

"  Why  isn't  something  said,  then,  of  this  Bunker 
Hill  list?"  asked  Phil. 

"  You  will  find  as  you  grow  older,"  said  Mr.  Der- 
ringforth,  "  that  people  like  to  read  of  successes — not 
failures,  unless  there  is  something  startling  in  them. 
The  papers  follow  public  taste.  They  do  not  try  to 
form  it.  A  man  makes  a  fortune,  and  it  is  talked  of 
forever — printed  and  reprinted.  He  is  always  promi- 
nent in  the  public  eye,  whereas  his  neighbor,  whose 
business  came  to  naught,  is  forgotten,  and  nothing  is 
ever  reprinted  to  keep  the  fact  alive.  It  is  well  that 
74 


it  is  so.  The  brighter  the  world  is  made  the  better. 
Let  the  gloom  be  forgotten,  but  do  not  be  misled, 
Phil — do  not  think  any  more  of  Wall  Street.  It  is  no 
place  for  you.  We  are  gaining  ground,  and  in  a  few 
months  more  shall  be  all  right.  I  am  not  surprised 
that  you  have  become  uneasy.  It  has  been  a  long, 
tedious  pull,  and  you  have  worked  like  a  veteran  with 
never  a  murmur.  I  have  watched  you,  and  your  ap- 
plication has  been  a  reward  to  me  for  the  siege  I 
have  been  through." 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  my  best,"  answered  Phil,  "  but 
it  is  pretty  hard  to  drag  along  as  we  have  been  drag- 
ging, seeing  every  dollar  that  comes  in  swallowed  up 
by  that  miserable  shark.  I  can't  endure  the  sight  of 
him  much  longer.  I  feel  like  choking  the  life  out  of 
the  cringing  cur." 

"You  must  not  speak  that  way,  Phil,"  his  father 
cautioned  him. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to 
help  it,"  answered  Phil  feverishly. 

' '  What  has  come  over  you  to  produce  this  reckless- 
ness ?  ' '  replied  Mr.  Derringforth,  regarding  his  son 
anxiously. 

"  I'm  simply  desperate.  I  can't  endure  this  drift- 
ing any  longer.  I  feel  like  overturning  everything  ; 
smashing  everything.  Last  night,  when  I  read  the 
account  of  these  men  who  had  made  fortunes  in  Wall 
Street  in  a  day,  I  thought  I  saw  a  way  out  for  us — a 
way  to  get  out  of  Strum's  grasp  ;  and  now  you  throw 
75 


cold  water  on  the  whole  thing.  I  don't  want  to  seem 
unreasonable  to  you,  father.  I  see  that  my  words  pain 
you,  and  I  am  sorry,  but  as  I  said  before,  I  am  fairly 
desperate.  You  don't  know  what  it  all  means  to  me  ; 
you  can  never  know." 

"  It  pains  me,  Phil — pains  me  very  deeply,  to  see 
you  in  this  mood,"  said  Mr.  Derringforth,  and  he 
spoke  in  subdued  tones,  trying  to  hide  the  wound  his 
son's  words  had  made. 

"Forgive  me,  father,"  said  Phil.  "I  did  not 
realize  what  I  was  saying.  I  am  simply  worn  out, 
tortured  almost  beyond  endurance." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  my  son,"  said  the 
father  tenderly.  "  I  wish  you  had  come  to  me  be- 
fore with  your  burdens.  I  knew  something  was 
troubling  you,  but  you  gave  me  no  chance  to  speak 
to  you  about  it.  I  think  now  that  I  understand  you. 
It  should  have  been  plain  to  me  before.  The  loss  of 
my  own  property  is  nothing  compared  to  my  regret 
for  you.  But  it  may  come  out  better  than  you  think, 
Phil.  Marion  is  a  sensible  girl,  and  will  do  as  you 
wish.  A  few  months  more  and  we  shall  be  all  right, 
I  trust.  Then  you  can  go  to  her  as  you  would  go  to 
her  now,  and  all  your  hopes  will  be  fulfilled.  We 
must  be  patient  a  little  while  yet.  Everything  will 
come  out  right  in  the  end." 


XV. 

DERRINGFORTH  plodded  through  the  day,  turning 
off  in  a  perfunctory  fashion  the  work  that  fell  to  his 
hands.  But  there  was  no  spontaneity  in  his  move- 
ments, no  sense  of  satisfaction  over  a  task  well  done. 
The  reassuring  words  of  his  father  had  for  a  time 
warmed  him  to  better  feeling  ;  but  they  meant  so 
little,  compared  with  his  disappointment,  that  they 
were  soon  buried  deep  beneath  the  gloom  that  pos- 
sessed him. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  on  the  coming  Thursday 
he  was  to  go  to  Marion.  What  possible  move  yet 
remained  ?  Why  had  he  waited  so  long,  he  asked 
himself  in  bitterness  of  soul?  The  last  chance  of 
escape  seemed  closed  to  him.  And  after  all,  was  his 
father  right  about  Wall  Street  ?  Had  he  not  done 
wrong  in  going  to  a  Shylock  for  aid  ?  Had  he  not 
seen  relief  just  ahead  throughout  an  entire  year,  and 
was  it  not  as  far  off  now  as  at  the  beginning  ? 

"  I  did  not  believe  in  the  first  place  in  borrowing 
money  at  a  ruinous  rate,"  went  on  Phil.  "  I  said  so 
at  the  time.  If  we  had  stopped  then,  we  should 
77 


be  all  right  now.  We  could  have  paid  our  debts 
long  before  this,  and  there  would  have  been  a  fort- 
une left.  Now  everything  is  tied  up,  and  we  are  in 
the  clutches  of  a  robber.  The  profits  of  a  year's 
work,  and  the  best  of  all  our  securities,  have  gone  to 
him  and  still  the  hideous  cry  rings  in  our  ears,  more, 
more,  more.  Instead  of  getting  out  we  are  getting  in 
deeper  all  the  while,  and  yet  father  tries  to  persuade 
himself  that  we  shall  be  all  right  in  a  few  months. 
He  is  as  likely  to  be  mistaken  about  Wall  Street  as 
about  his  own  business.  I  can  understand  his  dread 
of  a  crash.  I  know  his  pride  and  sensitiveness.  He 
has  never  met  defeat  and  he  is  trying  to  do  the  im- 
possible, thinking  that  he  will  finally  triumph.  But 
we  have  been  bled  too  much.  If  there  were  any 
really  good  foundation  for  believing  that  three  or  four 
months  more  would  save  us,  I  should  feel  more  like 
going  to  Marion.  She  would  wait  patiently,  I  am 
sure,  but  there  is  no  ground  for  hope.  I  will  not 
mislead  her  as  we  have  misled  ourselves.  It  would 
not  be  manly ;  would  not  be  right.  She  would  not 
respect  me,  and  I  should  not  respect  myself." 

The  seed  of  distrust  had  lodged  in  Derringforth's 
heart.  He  had  never  before  questioned  his  father's 
judgment  in  just  this  way.  To  be  sure,  he  had  said 
that  he  did  not  believe  in  borrowing  money  at  ex- 
orbitant rates.  But  these  words  were  spoken  with- 
out the  responsibility  on  his  shoulders  of  maintaining 
the  credit  of  the  house.  Up  to  this  time  he  had 
78 


seldom  seriously  questioned  his  father's  judgment. 
But  today  he  was  more  unsettled.  The  mistakes 
that  had  hitherto  seemed  merely  the  natural  out- 
growth of  existing  complications  appeared  in  a  some- 
what different  light.  He  was  looking  at  them  from 
another  point  of  view. 

In  the  evening  he  strolled  up  to  the  Windsor 
Hotel,  where  Wall  Street  men  were  wont  to  congre- 
gate at  the  end  of  the  day  and  discuss  the  why  and 
the  wherefore  of  things  speculative.  This  custom  is 
still  kept  up,  and  a  lively  market  brings  together 
many  brokers,  operators,  and  financiers.  The  atmos- 
phere of  the  lobby  is  fraught  with  speculation, 
rumors,  predictions,  and  forebodings  dark  and  omi- 
nous. 

Derringforth  had  been  in  the  hotel  but  a  few 
minutes  when  a  young  man  came  up  and  spoke  to 
him. 

"  Isn't  this  Phil  Derringforth?  "  he  said,  extend- 
ing his  hand. 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  the  advantage  of  me.  I  can- 
not place  you." 

The  other  laughed.  "  You  ought  to  remember  an 
old  schoolfellow." 

"  Burrock?  "  ventured  Derringforth. 

"  Right  you  are — the  same,  and  I'm  devilish  glad 
to  see  you,  old  man.  I've  intended  to  look  you  up, 
but  have  been  so  busy — you  know  how  it  is  your- 
self." 

79 


"Have  you  been  in  town  long?"  asked  Der- 
ringforth,  holding  himself  rather  stiffly. 

"Oh,  yes,  over  two  years — lively  town  this — one 
can't  get  round  much  to  hunt  up  anybody,  but  I'm 
right  glad  to  see  you,  old  chap — rich  as  ever,  I 
s'pose  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  I  could  stand  a  trifle  more  of  prosperity 
without  its  turning  my  head." 

"  I  should  think  so.  Nothing  would  ever  turn 
your  head.  I  remember  the  way  you  used  to  do  us 
up  at  school,  and — I  say,  I  haven't  forgotten  the 
time  you  came  to  my  rescue,  that  night  out  on  the 
Riggs  road.  Geewhiz,  weren't  those  fellows  going 
for  me  !  I'd  have  been  jelly  in  five  minutes  more — 
a  great  fight,  wasn't  it?  I  must  do  something  for 
you,  old  man — a  good  turn  deserves  its  reward. 
Can't  I  give  you  a  pointer  on  the  market? — every- 
thing is  jumping,  going  up,  up,  up — never  saw  any- 
thing like  it — made  five  thousand  today  myself — ex- 
cuse me  a  minute,  there  is  a  man  I  want  to  speak 
to,"  and  he  rushed  away  unceremoniously  and  up  to 
the  new  arrival  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  millions 
at  stake. 

Derringforth  walked  to  one  side  of  the  lobby  and 
stood  there  almost  like  a  statue,  dumb  with  amaze- 
ment. There  was  Burrock  before  his  eyes  talking  in 
the  most  enthusiastic,  self  possessed,  and  impressive 
manner  imaginable.  Presently  a  small  man  came 
in — small  in  stature,  but  evidently  very  great  in  the 
80 


eyes  of  the  Wall  Street  hosts.  He  was  no  other 
than  Jay  Gould.  Derringforth  recognized  him,  and 
a  minute  later  was  astounded  to  see  him  speak  to 
Burrock  as  he  passed  by. 

"And  this  is  that  scrubby  little  Burrock,"  Der- 
ringforth mused,  hardly  believing  his  own  eyes. 
"  Hank  Burrock,  as  the  boys  called  him,  en  rapport 
with  the  kings  of  the  Street,  a  devil  may  care  fellow 
like  him  !  ' ' 

Burrock  had  not  enjoyed  the  good  opinion  of  the 
students  at  the  academy.  His  scholarly  attributes 
were  thin  of  fiber  compared  with  his  assurance. 
Serious  study  and  he  were  strangers.  In  his  third 
year  he  was  dropped  for  an  act  of  grave  misconduct.  , 
And  now  apparently  he  was  a  bigger  man  than  any 
one  of  the  school.  Derringforth  could  only  wonder 
at  what  he  saw.  When  Burrock  introduced  himself 
he  was  disposed  to  hold  him  at  a  distance,  but  now 
he  began  to  feel  a  sudden  interest  in  renewing  the 
acquaintance. 

"Made  five  thousand  dollars  today,"  he  repeated 
to  himself.  "  Everything  is  jumping,  going  up,  up, 
up.  If  I  could  only  make  five  thousand  dollars  I 
could  go  to  Marion  happy  as  a  king.  Am  I  not  as 
smart  as  Burrock — little  Burrock,  who  never  had  a 
lesson,  and  if  he  can  make  money  in  Wall  Street, 
why  shouldn't  I  ?  " 


XVI. 

DERRINGF.ORTH  did  not  derive  much  spiritual  food 
from  the  preached  word  the  following  morning. 
Around  and  about  him  were  a  dozen  sleek,  self 
satisfied  looking  millionaires  whose  money  had  been 
made  in  Wall  Street.  Derringforth  felt  a  trifle  en- 
vious. Why  should  these  men  have  so  much  and  he 
be  in  distress? 

But  this  thought  soon  gave  place  to  quickening 
ambition.  He  forgot  his  surroundings,  forgot  that 
he  was  in  the  house  of  God,  and  heeded  not  the 
admonitions  that  fell  from  the  preacher's  lips.  His 
mind  was  in  Wall  Street.  He  was  constructing 
schemes  for  speculation  and  figuring  out  his  profits. 
As  his  gains  accumulated,  his  mind  warmed  to  the 
theme.  The  machinery  of  his  brain  moved  faster 
and  yet  faster.  His  plans  grew  apace,  until  finally 
he  saw  himself,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  among 
the  most  active  operators  of  the  exchange. 

Burrock,  the  boy  he  had  looked  upon  at  school  as 
an  undesirable  acquaintance,  had  suddenly  grown  to 
larger  stature.  Then  his  clothes  fitted  badly  and  he 


was  generally  a  fellow  of  the  second  order.  But  now 
he  was  a  power.  He  had  been  in  Wall  Street  two 
years,  and  lived  like  a  Crossus — had  bachelor  apart- 
ments, lavishly  furnished,  drove  a  spanking  tandem, 
and  spent  money  right  and  left. 

Burrock  was  a  bull  of  the  fiercest  type.  The 
market  was  with  him,  and  he  saw  millions  in  the 
air.  His  enthusiasm  was  infectious.  Derringforth 
had  spent  an  hour  with  him  the  night  before  in  his 
luxurious  rooms,  and  had  caught  the  infection. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  words  of  the  pulpit  did 
not  reach  Derringforth's  mind.  He  was  not  in  a 
receptive  mood  for  Bible  truths,  or  anything  in  fact 
that  did  not  vibrate  with  a  dramatic  thrill.  He 
called  on  Marion  in  the  evening.  He  had  not  in- 
tended to  do  this.  She  did  not  expect  him.  His 
soul  was  on  so  lofty  a  plane  that  he  hesitated  at  noth- 
ing. There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  spend 
an  hour  or  two  with  her.  In  fact,  it  was  the  natural 
thing  for  him  to  do.  But  he  had  been  in  an  un- 
natural mood.  He  had  seemed  to  fight  shy  of  her. 
She  was  too  proud  to  coax  him  to  call,  and  he 
remained  away — with  a  heartache. 

Marion  was  in  the  parlor  with  Burton  Edwards 
when  Derringforth  entered  the  room. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  extending  her 
hand  cordially,  and  introduced  him  to  her  guest. 

Derringforth  was  at  his  best — chatty,  genial,  and 
entertaining.  Brought  face  to  face  with  Burton 
83 


Edwards,  he  seemed  the  superior  man.  Marion 
noted  this,  and  in  the  depths  of  her  heart  she  was 
glad.  She  had  wondered  if  he  would  not  suffer  by 
personal  comparison,  but  the  test  had  been  made  and 
with  the  odds  on  his  side. 

She  listened  to  his  conversation  in  amazement. 
He  had  never  been  so  delightfully  clever  before,  and 
she  blessed  him  from  the  sincerity  of  her  soul  for 
drawing  attention  from  herself.  Her  position  was 
painfully  awkward.  She  was  paying  the  penalty  of 
concealing  what  she  ought  to  have  told.  Derring- 
forth  knew  nothing  of  Edwards,  and  Edwards  knew 
nothing  of  Derringforth.  She  had  not  mentioned 
either  to  the  other.  But  here  they  were  face  to  face, 
and  each  seemed  to  be  on  the  most  intimate  terms 
with  her. 

"  Marion  completely  captured  our  hearts  while  she 
was  with  us  on  the  ranch,"  remarked  Edwards,  in 
the  course  of  conversation. 

"You  mustn't  believe  him,  Phil,"  said  Marion, 
her  cheeks  burning ;  and  turning  to  Edwards  she 
added,  with  a  pretty  little  gesture  of  protest,  "You 
are  so  extravagant  in  your  praise,  Burton." 

"Who  is  this  fellow  that  presumes  to  call  her 
Marion  and  whom  she  calls  Burton?  "  said  Derring- 
forth to  himself,  paling  as  if  pierced  by  an  arrow. 

"Who  is  this  fellow  that  Marion  calls  Phil  with 
such  familiarity?"  thought  Edwards,  the  fire  darting 
from  his  eyes. 


XVII. 

IT  would  have  required  a  far  cooler  head  than 
Marion  Kingsley's  to  withstand  without  embarrassment 
the  look  that  both  Derringforth  and  Edwards  gave  her. 
She  was  conscious  of  the  blush  that  proclaimed  her 
discomfort.  The  struggle  to  appear  natural  was  una- 
vailing. Her  self  possession  deserted  her. 

Had  she  been  thirty  instead  of  twenty,  and  well 
skilled  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  schooled  by  the  ex- 
perience that  hardens,  she  would  have  found  less  diffi- 
culty in  maintaining  an  unruffled  front.  But  her  life 
had  been  singularly  free  from  deception,  beyond  her 
double  dealing — as  she  now  regarded  it — with  the  two 
men  before  her.  The  thought  flashed  across  her  in  all 
its  ugliness.  She  felt  like  flying  from  the  room  to  es- 
cape from  them,  to  escape  from  herself  if  possible. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  silence  of  an  instant  had 
lengthened  into  an  hour.  Would  no  one  ever  speak — 
say  something,  anything  that  would  draw  attention 
from  her?  In  desperation  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Der- 
ringforth in  mute  appeal.  His  face  was  white  as  death. 
He  had  never  before  known  the  torture  of  jealousy, 
85 


but  that  one  word  "  Burton  "  from  her  lips,  in  con- 
nection with  what  he  saw  and  heard,  was  enough.  No 
dagger  thrust  could  have  been  sharper  or  more  sudden. 

But  he  had  not  the  heart  to  let  her  suffer.  He  saw 
her  embarrassment,  and  understood  her.  The  thought 
that  she  had  been  deceiving  him — that  she  was  in  love 
with  Edwards — even  this  was  not  enough  to  steel  his 
heart  against  her.  When  her  eyes  reached  his  with  a 
look  that  seemed  to  cry  for  help,  he  felt  that  she  had 
turned  to  him,  not  Edwards,  and  a  deeper  sense  of 
love  than  he  had  ever  felt  before  went  out  to  her. 
With  masterful  control  over  himself  he  said  : 

"  Pardon  me  for  my  absent  mindedness.  I  met  an 
old  schoolfellow  last  night — the  oddest  specimen  in 
the  world — and  he  keeps  coming  into  my  thoughts. 
It's  a  strange  confession  to  make,  I  know,  but  it  will 
account  for  my  being  dumb.  I'll  promise  to  do  better 
from  now  on,  Marion,  so  do  not  look  at  me  as  if  I 
were  an  enigma.  That  fellow  Burrock  is  the  cause  of 
my  inanity.  He  was  the  last  boy  in  school  that  prom- 
ised to  amount  to  anything,  and  now  here  he  is  in 
New  York  cutting  a  wide  swath,  making  heaps  of 
money — five  thousand  dollars  only  yesterday — and 
lives  like  a  king.  I  wish  you  could  all  see  him  as  I 
remember  him,  and  contrast  his  appearance  as  a  boy 
with  the  dash  and  style  he  carries  now. ' ' 

The  silence  was  effectually  broken,  and  Derringforth 
made  it  seem  that  he  was  responsible  for  it  all.    What 
he  had  said  of  Burrock  quickened  the  curiosity  of 
86 


Edwards,  and  Derringforth  told,  with  spirit,  many 
amusing  incidents  of  the  youthful  Napoleon  of  finance. 

Marion  almost  forgot  her  own  discomfort  in  admira- 
tion of  Derringforth.  His  generosity,  at  a  time  when 
she  felt  he  must  hate  her  for  her  duplicity,  idealized 
him  in  her  eyes.  She  noticed  the  quaver  in  his  voice 
when  he  first  broke  the  silence,  and  understood  its 
meaning.  Her  heart  ached  for  the  pain  she  had  caused 
him.  She  had  intended  to  tell  him  all  about  Edwards. 

"  If  I  had  only  done  this,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I 
should  not  feel  like  a  culprit  now.  I  did  not  realize 
that  concealing  the  knowledge  of  each  from  the  other 
was  really  wrong.  It  never  seemed  so  ugly  to  me  be- 
fore. Both  Phil  and  Burton  will  think  I  have  inten- 
tionally deceived  them,  but  I  have  not.  I  have  never 
intentionally  deceived  any  one." 

Edwards  had  less  cause  to  feel  jealous  than  Der- 
ringforth. He  had  no  claim  on  Marion.  She  had 
never  given  him  to  understand  that  she  cared  for  him 
with  any  feeling  more  warm  than  friendship.  It  was 
not  necessary  for  her  to  do  so.  His  love  for  her 
needed  no  such  quickening.  In  the  summer  at  her 
country  home  she  had  entertained  him  delightfully, 
but  had  cleverly  kept  him  from  saying  the  thing  that 
filled  his  heart,  even  as  she  had  on  the  day  of  their  last 
ride  together  at  the  end  of  her  visit  to  the  ranch,  now 
nearly  a  year  ago. 

He  had  often  puzzled  his  brain  to.  divine  her  pur- 
pose in  keeping  him  at  a  distance,  while  seemingly 
87 


enjoying  his  presence.  There  was  every  reason  to 
believe  that  she  liked  to  have  him  with  her,  but  beyond 
a  certain  line  he  could  make  no  advancement.  The 
thought  had  sometimes  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps 
she  loved  another,  and  yet  he  saw  no  evidence  of  this. 
She  was  usually  surrounded  by  a  dozen  admirers,  no 
one  of  whom  seemed  to  be  favored  so  much  as  himself. 

This  in  a  way  was  gratifying,  but  it  was  also  dis- 
appointing. His  summer  visit  had  only  served  to  in- 
crease his  passion  for  her,  without  bringing  him  the 
assurance  his  heart  craved.  Sometimes  he  fancied  that 
by  an  act  or  a  look  she  betrayed  love  for  him,  and  his 
soul  glowed  with  happiness.  Why  she  should  be  so 
strictly  on  guard  was  a  mystery,  since  there  was  no  one 
else  to  whom  she  seemed  devoted.  But  whenever  he 
approached  the  subject  of  his  love  for  her  she  always 
managed  to  turn  him  from  it.  She  seemed  to  under- 
stand him  perfectly,  while  he  could  not  divine  her 
motives.  He  felt  annoyed  with  himself  at  his  repeated 
failures.  He  could  not  well  be  vexed  at  her.  She 
was  always  charmingly  agreeable,  and  seemed  utterly 
unconscious  of  his  purpose. 

The  summer  visit  had  finally  ended.  He  left  her 
more  deeply  in  love  than  ever,  promising  to  visit  her 
again  in  the  winter.  She  had  baffled  every  attempt 
to  tell  her  what  he  had  come  three  thousand 
miles  to  say — what  he  had  resolved  he  would  say,  even 
if  it  had  to  be. said  abruptly.  And  now  after  the 
lapse  of  a  few  months  he  had  come  again  with  a  like 
88 


resolve.  Continents  are  nothing  for  love  to  traverse. 
It  knows  no  distance,  no  obstacles — the  sort  of  love 
that  burned  in  the  breast  of  Burton  Edwards. 
Marion's  evident  delight  at  his  coming  made  him 
very  happy,  and  the  happiness  had  grown  upon  him 
every  hour  until  Derringforth  suddenly  appeared  be- 
fore him.  There  was  something  in  the  greeting  she 
gave  Phil  very  different  from  her  manner  towards  the 
young  men  whose  attention  was  so  assiduous  to  her 
during  the  summer.  Edwards  felt  an  odd  sensation 
come  over  him  at  the  first  sight  of  Derringforth — a 
sort  of  premonition  that  he  stood  between  Marion 
and  himself. 

It  is  not  an  easy  matter  for  a  man  with  the  heart- 
ache to  talk  as  Phil  talked,  rising  above  his  feelings, 
and  giving  a  zest  to  the  conversation  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening.  He  felt  a  satisfaction  in  re- 
storing serenity,  and  was  in  a  way  gratified  at  his  suc- 
cess in  making  it  seem  that  he  alone  was  responsible 
for  the  embarrassing  pause  in  the  conversation. 

Happiness  always  follows  a  generous  act ;  but 
Derringforth's  happiness  was  comparative  merely — 
not  actual.  He  was  glad  to  get  away  and  be  by 
himself,  where  he  could  think,  and  yet  it  was  with 
the  utmost  reluctance  that  he  tore  himself  from 
Marion,  leaving  her  with  a  man  who  loved  her — 
whom  perhaps  she  loved.  The  sensation  of  jealousy 
rankled  in  his  soul,  but  the  thought  that  Marion  had 
turned  to  him  in  her  distress  was  a  source  of  com- 
89 


fort.  He  loved  her  now  as  it  had  never  seemed  to  him 
he  could  love,  and  more  than  ever  he  felt  the  torture 
of  the  poverty  that  would  compel  him  to  ask  that  the 
engagement  be  postponed.  And  now  what  might 
not  be  the  result  of  a  postponement  with  a  rival  in 
the  field,  and  such  a  rival  as  Burton  Edwards? 

"  If  I  had  only  gone  to  California  with  her,"  he 
thought.  "  Perhaps  she  never  would  have  met  him. 
It  would  have  been  different,  any  way,  if  I  had  been 
with  her.  But  I  couldn't  go.  A  Shylock  had  me 
by  the  throat.  I  should  have  told  Marion  ;  then  she 
would  have  understood  me.  This  concealing  things 
from  one  who  has  a  right  to  know  always  makes 
trouble.  It  has  made  trouble  for  Marion  as  well  as 
myself.  She  ought  to  have  told  me  about  Edwards. 
She  always  used  to  tell  me  everything.  Perhaps  I 
am  to  blame.  I  haven't  told  her  anything  about 
our  trouble,  and  I  didn't  even  go  to  see  her  all 
last  summer.  It  was  plain  enough  to  me  why  I 
didn't  go,  but  I  begin  to  understand  that  it  was  not 
plain  to  her.  I  know  how  it  seems  now  to  realize 
that  the  one  I  love  has  concealed  something  from 
me.  Marion  may  have  felt  as  I  feel,  and  a  girl  has 
reason  to  notice  such  things  more  than  a  man. ' ' 


XVIII. 

DERRINGFORTH  spent  a  sleepless  night,  and  on 
Monday  morning  went  to  the  office  in  bad  temper. 
There  was  no  sunshine  anywhere.  He  was  half  sick 
and  in  a  more  fretful  mood  than  ever  before  in  his 
life.  To  make  matters  worse,  his  father  was  called 
over  to  Philadelphia.  This  compelled  Derringforth 
to  remain  at  the  office  and  dig  into  figures  with  a 
splitting  headache  and  a  worse  heartache.  It  cut  him 
out  of  another  day,  and  there  were  only  three  remain- 
ing. Even  with  Burrock's  help  he  could  accomplish 
little  in  so  short  a  time. 

"Four  days,"  he  reflected,  "would  give  me  a 
better  show,  and  I  promised  to  meet  Burrock  and 
lunch  with  him  at  one,  but  now  father  is  away. 
Everything  is  working  against  me. ' ' 

At  this  juncture  Derringforth's  train  of  thought 
was  interrupted  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Mar- 
tin Strum. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  latter,  bowing  very 
low  in  a  beggarly  way.  "  I  hope  I  am  not  intrud- 
ing." 

91 


"I  can  see  you  if  it  is  necessary,"  answered 
Derringforth  shortly. 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Strum  obsequiously.  "  It 
is  desirable  that  I  should  see  you.  In  fact,  my  client 
instructed  me  to  come  to  you  several  days  ago,  but  I 
have  hesitated,  knowing  that — er,  believing  that  you 
would  send  for  me  when — er,  whenever  it  was  con- 
venient for  you  to  see  me.  But  my  client — you 
know  how  impatient  some  men  are,  Mr.  Derring- 
forth." He  stroked  his  thin,  bony  chin  with  his 
yet  thinner  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  his  cringing, 
crawling,  apologetic  manner  sent  a  chill  through 
Derringforth. 

There  was  a  pause.  "  I  had  expected  to  see  your 
father,"  continued  Strum,  "but — you  are  a  member 
of  the  firm,  I  believe.  Am  I  not  right — you  are  a 
member  of  the  firm  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  answered  Derringforth  curtly  ;  "but  per- 
haps you  would  better  wait  to  see  father." 

"Will  he  be  in  soon?" 

' '  He  is  out  of  town. ' ' 

"Out  of  town?"  repeated  Strum,  raising  his  eye- 
brows in  feigned  surprise. 

"Yes." 

"It  is  unfortunate.  I  should  have  come  before; 
my  client  will  blame  me,"  said  Strum,  speaking  very 
low,  as  if  talking  to  himself. 

Derringforth  took  up  a  letter  and  began  reading  it. 
Strum  stood  by,  apparently  in  deep  thought.     Der- 
92 


ringforth  did  not  take  in  the  meaning  of  the  letter. 
His  contempt  for  Strum  was  getting  the  mastery  of 
him.  He  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote  a  note  to  Bur- 
rock, saying  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  lunch  with 
him.  He  called  the  office  boy  and  sent  him  out  with 
the  note.  Strum  still  stood  by  meekly  waiting  the 
pleasure  of  Derringforth. 

The  telephone  bell  rang.  Derringforth  answered 
it.  He  returned  to  his  desk  and  went  through  the 
motions  of  writing.  His  nerves  had  been  unstrung 
by  the  strain  upon  them  during  the  previous  evening, 
and  by  the  lack  of  sleep  throughout  the  night.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  endure  much  longer  the  pres- 
ence of  Strum.  "  If  he  would  only  say  something," 
he  thought,  "curse  me  to  my  face,  even,  it  would  be 
a  relief.  Then  I  could  throttle  the  miserable  cur." 

The  silence  had  become  unbearable  when  at  length 
Strum  spoke. 

"I  fear  I  am  trespassing  on  your  time,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "Shall  I  wait  outside  until  you  are 
more  at  leisure  ?  ' ' 

"  If  you  have  any  business  with  me  the  sooner  it 
is  over  the  better,"  answered  Derringforth  almost 
fiercely. 

Strum  moved  back  a  step  and  if  possible  assumed  a 
more  obsequious  manner  than  ever.  "It  is  about  the 
collateral  I  have  come — the  collateral  your  father 
offered  me." 

"Well,"  said  Derringforth. 
93 


"  The  securities  are  not  satisfactory  to  my  client. 
I  think  myself  that  they  are  good,  perfectly  good,  but 
as  his  attorney  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  urged  leniency, 
but  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  is  firm,  very  firm,  sir.  I 
have  done  my  best  in  your  interest.  I  hope  you  will 
look  upon  it  in  this  light,  sir — in  this  light." 

"Go  on,"  said  Derringforth. 

"  I  was  about  to  say — I  had  started  to  say,  that 
the  securities  for  the  proposed  renewal  of  the  twenty 
thousand  dollar  loan  are  not  satisfactory  to  my  client. 
He  says  he  must  have  the  money.  I  have  urged  him 
to  reconsider,  but  as  J  have  already  said,  he  is  firm, 
very  firm,  sir.  But  I  am  not  without  hope — no,  not 
yet  without  hope.  If  you  could  go  over  your  affairs 
with  me — could  give  me  the  assurance  of  improve- 
ment, and  could  strengthen  these  securities  in  some 
way,  by  the  addition  of  others,  perhaps,  or  an  in- 
dorsed note,  or  maybe  a  mortgage — your  home  is 
clear,  I  believe — no  lien  on  it.  I  understood  your 
father  to  say  there  was  not. ' ' 

"  If  my  father  told  you  so,  sir,  you  would  do  well 
not  to  question  his  word,"  replied  Derringforth,  boil- 
ing with  indignation. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  right.  I  am  very  sorry  you 
should  impute  to  me  motives  that  I  would  not  harbor 
— not  for  a  minute.  I  knew  how  it  would  be,  and 
told  my  client,  but  he  would  not  listen  to  me.  He 
commanded  me  to  come  to  you  and  investigate  your 
affairs." 

94 


"  Well,  you  can't  investigate  our  affairs,  and  you 
may  tell  your  client  so,"  said  Derringforth  decisively. 
"  And  furthermore,"  he  went  on,  "  you  may  say  from 
me  that  he  has  got  about  all  the  blood  out  of  this 
house  he  will  get." 

This  utterance  frightened  Strum,  who  feared  that 
the  Derringforths  were  on  the  verge  of  collapse. 
The  absence  of  the  senior  partner  strengthened  the 
suspicion.  He  had  come  to  the  son  to  pry  into 
affairs,  having  learned  that  the  father  had  gone  out  of 
town.  And  now,  after  hearing  these  reckless  words 
from  the  young  man,  he  was  determined  to  make  good 
his  errand. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  feel  annoyed.  I  was  afraid  you 
would,  but  I  am  sure  you  can't  blame  me,"  he  began. 
"  I  must  act  for  my  client,  and  he  has  advanced  large 
sums  of  money,  and  money  is  very  tight,  you  know — 
very  tight.  Of  course  one  wants  to  feel  safe.  My 
client  has  relied  upon  me  largely,  but  now  he  wants 
additional  facts — he  must  have  them,  or  the  renewal, 
I  fear,  will  not  be  made.  Mind  you,  he  says  it 
will  not  be  made,  but  I  am  working  in  your  in- 
terest— in  your  interest,  sir.  Your  father  asked  me 
to  get  the  loan  renewed.  The  note  falls  due  tomor- 
row. I  suppose  your  father  thinks  the  matter  has 
been  arranged,  but  I  regret  to  say,  I  am  very  sorry  to 
say,  it  has  not.  In  view  of  these  facts,  regarding 
your  father's  wishes,  I  am  sure  you  will  not  be  hasty. 
A  moment's  reflection  will  show  you  that  I  am  work- 
95 


ing  in  your  interest — in  your  father's  interest.  My 
client  is  a  stubborn  man — a  very  stubborn  man.  I 
would  not  dare  tell  him  what  you  have  said.  He 
would  be  unyielding — unmerciful  even  ;  but  handled 
right  he  is  kind  hearted.  I  am  sure  he  can  be  brought 
to  see  that  it  is  for  the  interest  of  all  that  the  renewal 
of  the  loan  be  granted.  I  will  undertake  to  guarantee 
that  myself,  if  the  statement  he  asks  for  can  be  had — 
not  a  formal  statement — just  a  knowledge  of  things, 
that  is  all  I  need,  so  that  I  can  assure  him  everything 
is  all  right.  He  relies  on  me,  you  see,  very  largely. ' ' 

"  Then  if  he  relies  on  you,  what  more  do  you 
want?  "  said  Derringforth.  "  You  say  you  are  your- 
self satisfied.  Your  stories  don't  hang  together.  I 
understand  you  through  and  through.  You  are  a 
cowardly  sneak,  trying  to  pry  into  our  affairs,  and 
placing  all  the  responsibility  on  some  one  else.  I 
have  seen  enough  of  you,  and  detest  you.  You  can 
do  your  worst — I  don't  care." 

"But  your  father,"  insinuated  Strum.  "  You  would 
not  want  to  see  him  humiliated  by  a  crash.  He  is  in 
the  power  of  my  client,  you  know — you  are  in  the 
power  of  my  client.  You  would  do  well  not  to  make 
a  mistake,  Mr.  Derringforth." 

Strum  was  a  trifle  whiter  than  usual,  but  beyond 
this  showed  no  feeling  at  Derringforth's  denunciation. 
He  was  there  for  a  purpose,  and  his  blood  was  too 
cold  to  be  inflamed  into  anger. 

His  very  coolness  exasperated  Derringforth.  "I 
96 


don't  ask  your  advice,"  he  said  defiantly.  "  Let 
the  worst  happen  that  can  happen — anything  will  be 
preferable  to  being  bullied  and  bled  by  a  pair  of 
cringing,  contemptible  Shylocks  like  you  and  your 
client,  whoever  he  may  be. ' ' 

Even  this  did  not  warm  Strum.  He  had  no  sense 
of  dignity — no  feeling.  Words  could  not  penetrate 
his  thick  skin.  His  cringing  manner  and  utter  dis- 
regard of  abuse  maddened  Derringforth.  Strum  con- 
tinued his  effort,  snake-like  and  cunning,  to  worm 
out  of  him  the  information  he  sought,  till  at  length 
Derringforth,  exasperated  to  the  last  degree,  made  a 
dash  for  him,  and  catching  him  by  the  nape  of  the 
neck  and  the  slack  of  his  trousers  threw  him  headlong 
from  the  office. 

"  Never  show  your  miserable  face  in  here  again, 
you  beggarly  parasite !  "  he  said,  as  Strum  turned  a 
couple  of  summersaults  and  doubled  up  in  a  heap. 


XIX. 

"I'M  glad  I  did  it,"  said  Derringforth  to  himself 
later  in  the  day  when  his  temper  had  cooled  down. 
"  It's  done  and  over  with.  It  had  to  be  done  sooner 
or  later.  The  conviction  has  been  growing  on  me 
that  I  couldn't  keep  my  hands  off  him  much  longer. 
I  felt  it  in  my  bones.  A  man  can  stand  only  so 
much  and  no  more.  I  feel  better,  come  what  will. 
It's  a  good  thing  to  give  a  cur  his  deserts.  I  don't 
know  what  father  will  say.  It's  done,  any  way,  and 
can't  be  undone." 

The  subject  thus  dismissed,  Derringforth  settled 
down  to  steady,  rapid  work,  and  turned  off  corre- 
spondence and  manipulated  figures  in  a  way  that 
would  have  made  a  veteran  accountant  envious. 
There  was  no  trace  now  of  the  blues  of  the  morning 
— no  headache,  no  heartache.  He  was  keyed  up  to 
too  high  a  point. 

In  the  evening  he  called  on  Burrock  at  his  apart- 
ment. 

"  I've  done  a  heap  of  thinking  since  I  saw  you," 
said  Derringforth. 

98 


"Good,"  returned  Burrock  in  his  offhand  way. 
' '  What  are  your  conclusions  ?  ' ' 

"  In  a  word,  that  I  want  to  make  some  money." 

"  Natural — why  don't  you?  " 

"  But  how  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  one  way — you  know  another." 

' '  You  mean  Wall  Street  ?  ' ' 

"Sure." 

"  And  you  think  I  have  made  a  lot  of  money  with 
my  father  ?  ' ' 

"  Everybody  thinks  so — haven't  you  ?  " 

"No.     This  is  confidential." 

"  Certainly — go  on." 

"  There  isn't  much  to  say,  only  that  we  have  had 
a  hard  year." 

' '  And  are  short  of  money  ?  ' ' 

"Yes." 

"  I  know  how  it  is  myself — devilish  uncomfortable 
— been  broke  myself  twice — high  and  dry,  fairly  on 
my  uppers." 

' '  And  now  you  are  on  the  top  wave  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  things  are  going  my  way  now." 

"  And  all  this  has  happened  inside  of  two  years  ?  " 

' '  Yes — no  place  like  Wall  Street  to  get  up  and  get 
down — makes  a  man's  head  whiz  sometimes,  but  it's 
life — nothing  like  it — just  suits  me — some  go  to  it — 
always  dramatic — no  stagnation — why  don't  you  try 
it?" 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 
99 


"  I'm  your  huckleberry — glad  to  do  anything  for 
you,  Derringforth — you  are  my  kind — by  the  way, 
can't  you  go  out  for  a  spin  with  me  tomorrow  after- 
noon?— say  four  o'clock — sleighing  is  fine." 

"I'll  try,"  replied  Derringforth,  his  wonder  in- 
creasing the  more  he  saw  of  Burrock.  "  But  what 
interests  me  most,"  he  continued,  "  is  Wall  Street. 
I  must  make  some  money.  I'm  not  on  my  uppers, 
but  in  a  way  I'm  worse  off.  It's  a  crisis  in  my  life. 
Burrock,  I'll  make  a  confidant  of  you.  I'm  in  love. 
I  shall  lose  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world.  I'm  half 
crazy — been  tortured  to  death  by  a  Shylock. ' ' 

"You  interest  me — I  know  how  you  feel — I've  al- 
ready lost  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world.'.' 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  indeed  I  am,"  said  Derring- 
forth, and  there  was  deep  sympathy  in  his  voice. 

"  Well,  it's  all  over — can't  be  helped — broke  me  up 
for  a  time — men  have  a  way  of  surviving,  but  it  hurts 
— what  can  I  do  for  you  ? — perhaps  I  can  save  you. ' ' 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do.  I  want  to  do 
for  myself.  Maybe  you  can  start  me  right,  but  I'm 
afraid  you  can't.  I  have  no  money  to  start  with. 
I  couldn't  draw  it  from  the  firm.  Father  doesn't  be- 
lieve in  speculation.  I  don't  like  to  go  against  his 
wishes,  but  he  may  be  wrong. ' ' 

"I  understand — men  are  sometimes  wrong,  and 
why  not  fathers  as  well  as  others  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  that  myself,  and  then — well,  it 
is  so  urgent.  If  it  were  not  for  this  pinch  I  should  be 


engaged  in  three  days  more — just  think,  Burrock, 
only  three  days,  and  the  girl  of  all  others  in  the 
world  !  I'll  tell  you  about  her  some  time — not  now 
— we  may  see  her  tomorrow  if  I  go  sleighing  with 
you — you  will  agree  with  me.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

' '  I  understand — you  either  become  engaged  or 
miss  your  chance. ' ' 

"  I  am  afraid  so, ' '  faltered  Derringforth. 

"  And  your  father  can't  do  anything  for  you?  " 

"  No,  I  would  not  allow  him  to,  with  the  load  he 
is  carrying.  The  fact  is  we  are  being  bled  to  death. 
Some  bold  move  must  be  made  to  get  out  of  the 
clutches  of  a  robber. ' ' 

"  A  good  idea.  I  like  your  thought — of  course  I 
know  how  you  feel  about  speculating  against  your 
father's  wishes.  I  don't  want  to  be  held  responsible, 
but  if  you  don't  draw  on  the  firm  for  money,  and  at- 
tend to  business,  doing  the  usual  work  you  have  to  do, 
I  can't  see  wherein  you  would  do  anything  very  dread- 
ful to  take  a  flier  in  the  market  now  and  again." 

"That's  the  way  it  seems  to  me,  but  the  how  of 
the  thing " 

"I  understand — 'tis  tough,  starting  without  any- 
thing, but  I've  done  it  twice — it  can  be  done,  and  it 
feels  good,  devilish  good,  to  pull  yourself  up  by  your 
boot  straps,  as  it  were." 

"  I  should  think  it  would.  I  should  like  to  try 
the  experiment." 

"  It's  a  great  act,  but  you  can  do  it — I'll  help  you 

IOI 


a  bit — let's  see,  what  shall  it  be?  —  St.  Paul  Pre- 
ferred, strikes  me,  is  a  sure  thing  for  a  couple  of 
points'  advance — had  a  tip  on  it  tonight — yes,  old 
man,  I  think  we  will  call  it  a  go  on  St.  Paul  Pre- 
ferred— how  much  shall  I  buy  for  you  ?  ' ' 

"Now  you  have  me,"  answered  Derringforth. 
"In  the  present  state  of  my  finances  I  think  one 
share  would  be  taking  great  chances." 

"But  I'm  going  to  help  you — s'pose  we  call  it  a 
hundred  shares  —  I'm  going  to  buy  for  myself  a 
thousand — you  can't  lose  much  on  a  deal  of  this 
size — I'll  put  a  stop  order  on  your  purchase,  so  that 
the  stock  will  be  sold  at  a  decline  of  one  point — this 
makes  you  safe." 

"  How  much  would  I  lose?  " 

"  Hundred  dollars  and  brokerage — that's  all — I'll 
trust  you  for  that,  and  if  you  get  knocked  down  the 
first  time  I'll  trust  you  for  a  second  flier." 

"You  are  too  kind,  Burrock.  I  ought  not  to 
allow  you  to  take  chances  on  me." 

"  Nonsense — you  are  good  for  a  hundred — if  you 
are  not  I  better  find  it  out — I  can't  waste  my  time 
on  a  fellow  that's  not  good  for  this  much." 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  allow  a  debt  of  this  size 
to  go  unpaid.  A  hundred  dollars  isn't  much  for  a 
man  to  earn  at  day  labor." 

"  No,  not  when  he  doesn't  have  to  earn  it  by  day 
labor — when  he  does,  it's  another  thing — I  know 
what  work  is — don't  I?  Geewhiz,  if  you'd  only  fol- 

102 


lowed  me  on  the  farm — but  I  know  when  I  have 
done  enough — I  know  what  suits  me — you  will  be 
daft  on  speculation — nothing  like  it  to  make  a  fel- 
low's blood  jump — you  will  make  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred on  tomorrow's  flier — mark  my  word,  and  just 
for  luck  I'll  bet  you  a  box  of  cigars — go  me?  " 


XX. 


TUESDAY  opened  big  with  possibilities  for  Derring- 
forth.  There  was  his  venture  into  Wall  Street,  and 
a  probable  crash  in  the  firm's  affairs.  Moreover,  he 
must  tell  his  father  of  the  unceremonious  method  he 
employed  in  getting  rid  of  Strum.  All  in  all  it  was 
no  ordinary  morning.  So  many  things  were  crowd- 
ing in  upon  his  mind  that  even  Marion  was  forgotten 
for  a  time. 

Shortly  after  the  market  opened  he  received  a  note 
from  Burrock,  saying :  "  Bought  your  stock,  St.  Paul 
Preferred,  sixty  eight  and  a  quarter — a  great  purchase 
— advanced  an  eighth  already — it  will  go  to  seventy 
today — may  be  more — the  girl  will  be  yours  yet !  " 

Derringforth's  heart  bounded.  "This  is  some- 
thing like  it,"  he  said,  with  difficulty  restraining  his 
enthusiasm.  "  I  only  wish  there  was  more  time.  I 
should  have  struck  out  for  myself  before,  but  perhaps 
it  isn't  too  late.  If  I  have  good  luck  now,  I  can 
go  in  heavier  next  time.  Burrock  buys  a  thousand 
shares  —  two  points'  advance  would  give  him  two 
thousand  dollars  against  my  two  hundred,  and  all 
104 


made  in  the  same  time.  I  wish  I  had  taken  more — 
gone  up  an  eighth  already — two  thousand  dollars — if 
I  could  only  make  as  much  I'd  take  the  chances  and 
not  ask  Marion  to  wait — two  thousand,  that  would 
give  me  a  good  capital  to  work  on." 

"  Well,  Phil,  how  is  everything — averted  a  crash 
while  I  have  been  gone?"  said  Mr.  Derringforth, 
coming  into  the  office  with  a  brisk  step.  "  Couldn't 
get  away  last  night — didn't  fix  up  the  deal  with 
Braddocks  until  after  midnight." 

"Then  you  got  the  money?  "  said  Phil  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  have  a  certified  check  in  my  pocket." 

"  Good.  We  are  saved.  I'm  glad  it  turned  out 
as  it  did." 

"Glad  what  turned  out — what  are  you  talking 
about  ? ' ' 

"  Strum.  He  came  here  yesterday,  and  finding 
you  were  away,  began  in  his  sneaking  fashion  to  pry 
into  our  affairs — said  his  client  wouldn't  take  the 
security  you  offered  him — wanted  a  mortgage  or 
something  equally  good.  I  began  to  get  hot.  I 
couldn't  bear  his  impudence,  and  finally  when  he 
said  he  had  you  in  his  power,  and  talked  of  a  crash 
and  all  thar,  I  picked  him  up  and  threw  him  out  of 
the  office  head  foremost — that's  all." 

"  Phil,  I'm  proud  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Derringforth. 
"I've  wanted  to  throw  the  miserable  parasite  out 
myself  a  dozen  times — I'm  glad  you  did  it,  now  that 
it  is  over ;  let  a  crash  come  if  it  wants  to." 
105 


"You  have  relieved  my  anxiety,"  replied  Phil. 
"I  was  afraid  you  would  blame  me,  but  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Any  one  with  spirit  would  have  done  as  I 
did,  I  think." 

"You  did  just  right.  I  do  not  regret  it  in  the 
least,  and  I  doubt  if  it  does  any  harm.  Fortunately 
we  can  meet  the  payment  that  comes  due  today,  and 
we  will  not  worry  about  the  others,  not  just  now." 

It  was  a  rare  thing  for  Derringforth  to  get  away 
from  the  office  before  the  close  of  business  hours,  but 
today  he  took  a  little  time  off.  Burrock  had  out  his 
pair  of  blacks,  with  a  showy  sleigh  and  handsome 
bear  robes.  The  air  was  crisp  and  keen,  the  sun 
was  bright,  and  the  sleighing  excellent.  The  horses 
were  alive  to  the  sport,  and  flew  over  the  frozen  snow 
at  an  exhilarating  pace. 

"  This  is  great  fun,"  said  Burrock,  hanging  on  to 
the  lines;  "gives  a  man  new  life  —  nothing  like  a 
sleigh  ride  after  all — glad  you  could  come  with  me — 
Jove,  don't  these  horses  pull? — never  saw  them  feel 
so  well." 

"I'm  glad  to  be  with  you,  you  may  be  sure,"  re- 
plied Derringforth.  "  This  is  a  great  treat  for  me — 
first  sleigh  ride  I  have  had  this  year. ' ' 

The  east  drive  of  Central  Park  was  brilliant  with 
showy  turnouts  and  gay  with  handsome  women.  The 
wealth  of  the  metropolis  was  out  in  force,  enjoying  to 
the  utmost  the  brief  season  of  winter  pleasure.  Bur- 
rock and  Derringforth  were  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and 
106 


chatted  in  light  vein  as  they  sped  along,  now  admiring 
a  pretty  face,  a  pair  of  prancing  horses,  or  a  novel 
sleigh,  and  again  criticising  and  commenting  with  the 
freedom  of  young  New  Yorkers. 

They  drove  up  as  far  as  Macomb's  Dam  Bridge,  and 
turned  back  towards  the  Park.  Seventh  Avenue  from 
One  Hundred  and  Fifty  Fifth  Street  to  One  Hundred 
and  Tenth  was,  and  is  even  now  to  a  considerable 
extent,  used  as  a  speedway.  Burrock  had  given  the 
blacks  the  reins,  and  they  were  skimming  over  the 
frozen  snow  at  a  pace  that  seemed  almost  like  flying. 
The  jingle  of  bells  and  the  array  of  bright  faces  were 
inspiriting.  Every  one  looked  happy.  The  side- 
walks were  lined  with  people  who  had  come  out  to 
watch  the  brilliant  scene  on  the  avenue. 

A  clump  of  racers  were  a  little  way  ahead,  each 
struggling  for  the  lead.  Burrock  had  his  eye  on  them, 
and  sent  the  blacks  in  hot  pursuit.  They  understood 
him,  and  laying  back  their  ears  sprang  forward.  In 
scarcely  the  space  of  a  breath  Burrock  and  Derringforth 
were  among  the  racers.  Over  the  glib,  smooth  snow 
the  horses  flew  on  and  on  in  their  mad  rush  till  the 
blacks  were  in  the  lead. 

Derringforth  felt  the  blood  dance  in  his  veins.  Bur- 
rock was  white,  but.  in  his  face  there  was  the  look  of 
proud  triumph.  The  thunder  of  hoofs  was  still  just 
behind.  The  glory  of  the  race  was  not  yet  secure. 
Almost  before  he  knew  it  the  great,  gaunt,  angular 
form  of  a  pacer  stole  up  beside  him.  That  insidious 
107 


amble  that  breaks  the  heart  of  an  honest  horse  was 
every  instant  sending  the  awkward,  ugly  beast  nearer 
to  the  front.  The  blacks  heard  him  coming,  and  shot 
forward  at  a  tremendous  gait.  Burrock  steadied  them 
with  the  lines,  and  urged  them  to  greater  speed.  Every 
tick  of  the  watch  sent  them  faster  and  yet  faster.  All 
eyes  were  turned  upon  the  racers.  It  was  neck  and 
neck,  hoof  and  hoof,  till  at  length  the  endurance  of 
the  pacer  began  to  fail.  The  blacks,  white  with  foam, 
seemed  to  gain  momentum  as  they  dashed  onward, 
and  soon  the  road  was  theirs  again — the  pacer  was  a 
length  behind. 

Derringforth  took  a  long  breath.  Burrock  was  even 
whiter  than  before. 

"Glorious!"  exclaimed  Derringforth,  so  excited 
that  his  words  were  scarcely  audible. 

"Great !  "  ejaculated  Burrock,  almost  jerking  out 
the  word  as  he  pulled  with  all  his  strength  on  the 
lines. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  a  string  of  gay  turn- 
outs was  bounding  northward.  Derringforth's  nerves 
thrilled  with  excitement  and  delight.  "  It's  worth  a 
thousand  dollars, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  wouldn' t  have  missed 
it  for  the  world." 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  in  them — whoa,  Tom ;  whoa, 
Jerry — left  everything  behind." 

"Yes,  everything  ever " 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  Derringforth  had 
an  instant  before  caught  sight  of  a  showy  pair  of  high 
108 


stepping  horses,  with  a  handsome  Russian  sleigh,  and 
now  he  saw  something  that  fairly  froze  the  blood  in  his 
veins.  It  was  Marion  in  the  act  of  calling  Burton 
Edwards'  attention  to  the  fiery  blacks. 

Edwards  was  on  the  inside  of  the  sleigh,  with  his 
head  turned  towards  hers.  With  a  sudden  impulse 
she  took  her  hand  from  her  muff  and  placed  it  on 
his  arm,  saying,  "  Oh,  Burton,  see,  see !  " 

She  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and  every  breath  wi- 
dened the  gap  between  her  and  Derringforth.  He 
turned  to  look  after  her.  Burton  Edwards  was  again 
gazing  into  her  eyes,  with  his  head  bent  towards  hers 
as  before. 


XXI. 

IF  the  fires  of  Hades  burn  with  a  flame  so  fierce  as 
the  fires  of  jealousy,  God  will  never  allow  man,  his 
own  creation,  to  suffer  an  endless  torture  so  merciless 
and  cruel. 

Derringforth  no  longer  found  any  comfort  in  the 
fact  that  Marion  had  turned  to  him  for  help  instead 
of  to  Burton  Edwards.  This  very  act  now  began  to 
loom  up  against  her.  He  saw  in  it  a  trick  to  deceive 
him.  The  thought  of  deception  in  connection  with 
Marion  was  one  that  had  never  till  now  entered  his 
heart.  It  hurt  him  almost  as  much  as  the  torture  of 
jealousy.  He  lived  over  again  that  Sunday  evening, 
and  saw  with  different  eyes  every  look  and  gesture  of 
Marion's — heard  anew  every  utterance  from  her  lips. 
There  could  be  but  one  interpretation  of  it  all.  Mar- 
ion was  in  love  with  Burton  Edwards ;  Marion  had 
sought  to  deceive  him. 

His  brain  reeled  with  agony  and  despair.     There 

was  no  longer  any  hope — nothing  to  live  for.     The 

very  substance  of  life  was  dissolving.     With  Marion 

false  to  him,  what  remained  that  he  could  cling  to — 

no 


what  was  there  to  sustain  him  ?  The  moan  of  his  own 
heart  frightened  him.  How  strange  and  awful  the 
sound  !  He  groped  about  as  one  in  darkness,  almost 
feeling  his  way.  He  dare  not  trust  his  eyes,  his  ears 
— everything  was  weird,  strange,  horrible.  He  shrank 
even  from  himself — from  the  dead,  cold  soul  within 
him — hopeless,  wretched. 

The  next  morning  among  Derringforth's  mail  was  a 
letter  from  Marion.  One  glance  at  the  superscription 
was  enough  to  send  the  blood  coursing  through  his 
veins.  He  tore  open  the  envelope  eagerly,  almost 
fiercely.  He  drew  out  the  letter,  and  suddenly  shrank 
from  reading  it.  A  fearful  thought  shot  through  his 
mind — the  thought  that  Marion  had  engaged  herself 
to  his  rival. 

He  crushed  the  note  in  his  trembling  hand,  and 
walked  back  and  forth  in  pitiable  agony.  The  fact 
itself  could  have  been  no  more  painful.  His  imagi- 
nation had  given  reality  and  substance  to  the  thing 
he  dreaded. 

For  a  few  moments  everything  became  blank.  The 
room  whirled  around  about  him.  He  seized  a  chair 
as  it  flew  past  and  threw  himself  into  it.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  head  and  tried  to  steady  it — tried  to  stop 
the  throbbing  of  his  brain ;  and  there  he  sat  pale, 
almost  ghastly,  hopeless,  heartless,  and  in  despair. 
Finally  he  was  roused  by  the  butler,  who  came  up  to 
say  that  breakfast  was  awaiting  him. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  dropping  the  letter  list- 


lessly  upon  the  table.  A  glance  at  his  white  face  in 
the  mirror  frightened  him.  He  had  never  seen  him- 
self look  so  badly.  He  wondered  if  he  were  not  ill. 
He  felt  his  pulse.  He  could  scarcely  detect  it.  There 
•was  a  sinking  sensation  in  his  stomach  that  robbed 
him  of  all  his  strength. 

He  was  upon  the  point  of  throwing  himself  upon 
the  bed  with  the  conviction  that  he  was  actually  ill, 
when  the  thought  of  Wall  Street  came  into  his  mind. 
There  was  his  speculation,  and  Burrock  had  invited 
him  to  luncheon.  No,  he  could  not  give  up.  He 
must  try  to  show  some  life — try  to  get  some  blood 
into  his  cheeks. 

He  went  to  the  washstand  and  splashed  his  face 
with  cold  water  and  rubbed  it  vigorously  with  a  coarse 
towel.  He  went  back  to  the  mirror.  The  artificial 
glow  had  taken  ten  years  off  him,  but  it  had  not  re- 
moved the  ache  from  his  heart  or  stilled  the  tremble 
of  his  hands.  He  put  on  his  coat,  took  up  Marion's 
letter,  and,  putting  it  in  his  pocket,  started  to  leave 
the  room. 

He  had  taken  perhaps  three  steps  when  he  stopped. 
His  hand  stole  into  his  pocket.  The  letter  came  forth. 
It  ran  thus : 

DEAR  PHIL  :  — 

I  have  been  trying  to  write  you  ever  since  Sunday 
night,  but  with  a  guest  to  entertain  I  have  hardly  had 
a  minute  to  myself.  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  appreciated  your  kindness.  You  were  perfectly 


lovely,  and  you  are  the  dearest  boy  in  the  world. 
You  must  think  very  badly  of  me,  Phil,  for  not  telling 
you  about  Burton  Edwards.  I  could  read  your 
thoughts.  It  was,  oh,  so  embarrassing  to  me  !  I  felt 
like  a  culprit.  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  We 
have  drifted  a  little  away  from  each  other,  Phil.  I 
have  not  felt  free  to  talk  to  you  the  way  I  used  to.  I 
shall  never  forget  how  generous  you  were  in  coming 
to  my  relief  as  you  did — taking  all  the  blame  upon 
yourself.  I  didn't  know  that  even  you  could  be  so 
unselfish,  and  you  did  it  so  cleverly  as  to  almost  mis- 
lead me. 

It  is  midnight.  Every  one  else  has  gone  to  bed.  I 
have  taken  this  time  to  write  to  you  to  thank  you  as  I 
have  thanked  you  in  my  heart  a  thousand  times,  and 
I  want  to  write  about  something  else,  too.  I  hardly 
know  how  to  begin  it.  I  don't  want  you  to  mis- 
understand me,  and  I  am  afraid  you  will.  It  is  about 
your  coming  to  me  on  Thursday  evening  I  want  to 
speak.  When  I  wrote  you  that  I  would  reserve  the 
evening  for  you,  I  knew  nothing  of  this  visit  from  Bur- 
ton Edwards.  What  I  want  to  ask  you  is,  would  it 
not  be  better  for  us  both  if  you  would  postpone  coming 
until  he  has  gone  ?  It  will  only  be  a  matter  of  ten 
days  or  so  now.  It  would  be  so  awkward  for  me  to 
seclude  myself  from  him  for  an  entire  evening,  and  I 
want  the  entire  evening  with  you,  as  I  promised  you. 
You  won't  misunderstand  me,  will  you,  Phil  ?  I 
know  you  won't.  Write  me  and  say  that  it  is  all 
right.  I  wish  you  could  have  been  with  us  this  after- 
noon. I  had  the  most  delightful  sleigh  ride — Mr. 
Edwards  took  me  out.  It  was  such  perfect  sleighing, 
and  such  a  brilliant  scene — every  one,  it  seemed  to 
me,  was  out  enjoying  the  sport  except  you,  and  you, 
poor  boy,  I  suppose,  were  as  hard  at  work  as  ever. 

"3 


You  are  making  a  perfect  slave  of  yourself.  I  wish  I 
could  ask  you  to  come  to  see  me  tomorrow  evening, 
but  we  all  go  to  the  theater. 

As  ever, 

MARION. 
TUESDAY,  midnight. 

There  was  a  sudden  rebound  in  Derringforth's 
spirits.  The  artificial  glow  of  his  face  was  amply  sus- 
tained now  by  the  quickened  action  of  his  pulse.  He 
straightened  himself  up,  and  threw  out  his  chest.  The 
sickening  sensation  was  gone.  He  was  a  man  once 
more,  and  all  the  love  of  his  heart  was  alive  again. 

There  were  two  thoughts  that  flashed  upon  his  mind 
as  he  read  Marion's  letter,  and  only  two.  The  one 
was  that  she  still  loved  him ;  the  other  that  the  addi- 
tional ten  days  would  give  him  time  to  go  further  into 
speculation  and  make  the  money  that  he  so  much  de- 
sired. There  seemed  to  him  now  something  almost 
providential  in  the  visit  of  Burton  Edwards. 

"  I  wonder  if  God  does  bring  these  things  about?  " 
he  meditated.  "Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  He  did. 
He  must  despise  me  for  being  so  foolish  this  morn- 
ing. I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  but  the  thought  that 
Marion  had  turned  from  me  was  so  real,  and  it  was 
so  cruel,  that  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  suppose  God  has 
some  purpose  in  working  in  His  mysterious  ways,  but 
I  don't  see  why  it  wouldn't  have  been  just  as  well  to 
make  a  short  cut  of  it.  If  He  had  kept  us  out  of  a 
Shylock's  clutches,  then  I  should  have  had  plenty  of 
114 


money.  It's  all  very  puzzling  when  I  stop  to  think 
about  it.  If  I  hadn't  gone  to  the  academy  I  should 
not  have  met  Burrock,  and  then  it  was  by  the  merest 
chance  that  I  ran  against  him  here  in  the  city  ;  and 
strange  to  say  he  seemed  ready  and  glad  to  help  me. 
It  looks  as  if  between  him  and  Edwards  I  may  come 
out  all  right  after  all — that  is,  I  have  a  chance  to,  and 
if  that  is  what  God  really  means,  I  shall,  of  course ; 
but  perhaps  it  isn't,  and  perhaps  God  isn't  doing  any- 
thing about  it.  It  may  be  all  chance.  If  it  is — but 
I  can't  think  it  is.  It  seems  as  if  there  were  some- 
thing more  than  chance  when  I  look  back  over  the 
strange  things  that  have  happened  even  in  my  short 
life." 

These  views  of  Derringforth's  were  not  very  de- 
cided, but  they  served  to  give  him  some  satisfaction, 
and  the  pangs  of  jealousy  were  allayed  for  a  time.  He 
wrote  Marion  a  very  cordial,  reassuring  note,  saying 
that  she  had  done  just  right  in  suggesting  a  postpone- 
ment— that  he  understood  her  fully  and  appreciated 
the  position  she  was  in  with  a  guest  to  entertain. 
"  Ten  days  or  even  more  will  make  no  difference," 
he  said.  "  We  are  not  likely  to  change  much  in  so 
short  a  time." 

But  Der-ringforth  was  not  quite  so  sure  of  this  a 
little  later  on.  He  was  not  so  confident  that  he 
could  see  God's  hand  in  sending  Edwards  into 
Marion's  very  home.  He  was  not  altogether  satis- 
fied that  he  had  written  the  best  letter  to  Marion 
"5 


that  could  have  been  written.  He  had  some  doubt, 
even,  about  an  overruling  power  having  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  bringing  him  and  Burrock  together. 

A  second  reading  of  Marion's  letter  had  produced 
this  change  in  him.  It  was  not  quite  so  reassuring  as 
he  had  at  first  thought.  There  was  no  evidence  that 
she  did  not  care  deeply  for  Edwards.  In  fact  she 
had  spoken  of  the  delightful  sleigh  ride  she  had  had 
with  him.  This  brought  back  the  scene  vividly  to 
Derringforth's  mind.  He  recalled  the  look  of  love 
in  Edwards'  face  as  he  gazed  into  Marion's  eyes. 
There  was  a  reawakening  of  the  old  jealousy,  and 
that  always  gives  a  different  shading  to  every- 
thing. What  if  Marion  had  sought  this  additional 
time  for  her  own  convenience?  Might  it  not  be 
possible  ? 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  consented  to  the  postponement, " 
he  sighed.  "It  may  be  all  right,  but  I  don't  like 
the  look  of  things.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  that  fel- 
low in  the  same  house  with  her,  and  they  are  to- 
gether all  the  time — going  to  the  theater  tonight. 
Why  didn't  Marion  ask  me  to  go  with  them  ?  Well, 
as  I  said,  it  may  be  all  right,  but — I  don't  know; 
I've  thought  so  much  and  worried  so  much  and  tried 
so  hard  to  make  money  that  I  can't  think  straight 
any  more.  One  time  I  think  one  thing  and  then 
again  something  else,  but  I  don't  know  that  this  sort 
of  thing  is  peculiar  to  myself.  I  fancy  that  other 
people  look  at  things  with  varying  moods  pretty 
116 


much  as  I  do.  If  not,  then  there  is  something  wrong 
with  me.  Well,  I've  agreed  to  wait  at  least  ten  days, 
and  I'll  do  it  without  murmuring  any  more,  and 
in  the  mean  time  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  in  Wall 
Street." 


XXII. 

TOWARDS  noon  Derringforth  received  a  note  from 
Burrock  inclosing  him  a  check  for  two  hundred  and 
eleven  dollars  and  thirteen  cents.  "  This  is  your 
net  profit  after  deducting  brokerage,"  he  wrote. 
"  Not  a  bad  go  for  the  first — gives  you  something  to 
operate  on — couldn't  wait  till  lunch — knew  you  were 
in  the  dumps — knew  this  check  would  brace  you  up 
— nothing  like  something  you  can  take  hold  of — 
you'll  get  there — a  boom  is  on — must  rush — see  you 
at  one,  and  talk  over  another  flier." 

Derringforth  gazed  at  the  check  with  admiring 
eyes — almost  with  a  look  of  amazement.  It  was  dif- 
ficult to  realize  that  he  had  made  this  money  without 
the  investment  of  a  penny  or  the  turning  of  a  hand. 
But  there  it  was,  and  all  the  profit  of  a  single  day. 

"  It  will  not  take  me  long  at  this  rate,"  he  said  to 
himself,  his  imagination  swinging  loose,  "  to  pile  up 
a  few  thousand  dollars.  Burrock  has  made  over 
twenty  one  hundred  on  this  single  deal.  I  wish  I 
had  gone  in  heavier — I  will  next  time.  It  doesn't 
do  for  a  man  in  Wall  Street  to  be  weak  kneed.  I 
118 


might  just  as  well  have  a  thousand  dollars  now  as  two 
hundred.  It  was  a  sure  thing  ;  Burrock  said  it  was. 
I  wonder  if  he  has  any  more  sure  things  ?  It  was 
too  bad  to  let  such  an  opportunity  slip  by  without 
making  the  most  of  it.  I'll  never  do  it  again,  that's 
one  thing  certain." 

Derringforth  went  to  bed  that  night  with  an  anx- 
iety so  keen,  so  deep,  that  it  overshadowed  for  the 
time  all  other  interests.  Burrock  had  bought  for  him 
five  hundred  shares  of  Western  Union.  The  stock 
was  very  active.  There  was  a  powerful  bear  com- 
bination trying  to  force  it  down.  But  the  ground 
was  contested  inch  by  inch  by  the  bulls.  Burrock 
had  confidence  that  the  stock  would  advance,  but  it 
was  a  guess  at  best.  He  had  advised  Derringforth  to 
take  only  a  hundred  shares.  ' '  I  think  it  is  a  good 
purchase  and  may  be  a  great  one — it's  a  wonderfully 
active  stock — bobs  up  and  down  like  mad,  but  I'm 
going  to  buy  a  thousand  shares  and  take  my  chances. 
I  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  it  jump  up  ten  points 
inside  of  two  days — sure  to  do  it  if  the  bulls  get 
away  with  the  bears — ought  to  go  to  a  hundred — 
paying  regular  dividends." 

Derringforth  had  in  mind  the  loss  he  had  made 
on  St.  Paul  by  his  timidity,  and  said  he  would 
have  the  courage  of  his  convictions  this  time,  any 
way. 

"  I  like  your  nerve,"  replied  Burrock.      "  You  are 
the  kind  that  gets  there — no  use  to  be  afraid." 
119 


"That's  what  I  think,"  answered  Derringforth, 
with  a  tinge  of  pride. 

An  hour  later  he  had  grown  a  trifle  more  conserv- 
ative. Western  Union  closed  weak.  It  had  dropped 
off  over  half  a  point  since  his  purchase.  He  met 
Burrock  in  the  evening,  and  together  they  saw  a 
number  of  brokers  and  speculators.  The  consensus  of 
opinion  was  that  Western  Union  would  be  forced 
down  further  yet.  There  were  ominous  rumors 
afloat  that  looked  ugly. 

Derringforth  went  home  with  some  uncertainty  as 
to  whether  his  temperament  was  exactly  suited  to 
Wall  Street.  With  two  hundred  of  winnings  in  his 
pocket  he  was  convinced  that  it  was.  With  his  prof- 
it wiped  out  and  another  hundred  gone  with  it,  and 
all  the  work  of  an  hour,  he  began  to  have  serious 
doubts. 

He  was  highly  wrought  up.  "As  Burrock  says, 
there  is  a  delightful  excitement  about  it  all,"  he 
admitted — "  delightful  if  one  likes  just  that  sort  of 
excitement,  but  I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  do.  Three 
hundred  dollars  gone  already  and  may  be  five," 
Derringforth  groaned.  "Perhaps  even  more,"  he 
went  on  dubiously. 

Burrock  had  told  him  to  keep  up  his  courage,  urg- 
ing that  the  deal  would  yet  come  out  all  right  in  the 
end. 

"That's  all  well  enough  for  Burrock,"  mused 
Derringforth.  "He  has  the  money  to  carry  the 


stock  for  a  turn,  but  I  haven't.  I  shall  be  sold  out 
— sold  out  with  a  loss,  and  just  when  I  need  money 
so  much." 

Derringforth's  reflections  in  the  preceding  chapter 
reveal  a  phase  of  his  character.  At  one  time  he 
was  disposed  to  regard  the  presence  of  Burton  Ed- 
wards as  providential;  at  another  he  exhibited  a 
considerable  doubt.  But  the  burden  of  his  reason- 
ing tended  towards  a  belief  in  the  overruling  power 
of  God.  He  had  before  now  invoked  in  a  half 
hearted  way  the  aid  of  Heaven  when  feeling  most 
keenly  the  pressure  of  the  Shylock's  hand.  But  these 
appeals  lacked  directness.  They  were  mere  breath- 
ings toward  Heaven — a  vague  wish  that  aid  might 
come  from  that  indefinite  source. 

He  had  never  been  quite  able  to  satisfy  himself 
whether  there  was  any  response  to  these  modest  ap- 
peals or  not.  Once  or  twice  he  thought  there  was ; 
once  or  twice  he  thought  there  was  not. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  not  have 
resorted  to  the  experiment  again.  But  this  was  an 
extraordinary  circumstance.  His  own  hands  were 
tied.  He  was  neither  a  bull  nor  a  bear.  He  was 
utterly  powerless  to  influence  the  price  of  Western 
Union  the  one  way  or  the  other.  He  sat  on  the  side 
of  his  bed  and  thought.  It  seemed  to  him  that  God 
alone  was  equal  to  the  emergency,  but  would  God 
have  anything  to  do  with  Wall  Street  ?  There  was 
serious  doubt  in  Derringforth's  mind  on  this  point. 


"If  it  were  only  something  a  little  more  respect- 
able there  might  be  some  hope,"  he  reasoned. 
"  I'm  afraid  that  gambling  isn't  in  very  high  favor 
in  heaven,  but  the  Bible  says,  '  Come  unto  me  all  ye 
that  are  weary  and  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest.'  That  is  plain  enough.  I  can't  see  why  it 
should  not  apply  to  Wall  Street  as  well  as  to  any 
other  place.  I  fancy  there  are  more  men  there  that 
are  weary  and  heavy  laden  than  anywhere  else  on  this 
earth.  Unfortunately  I  am  one  of  them,  but  I  am 
going  to  get  out.  Heaven  knows  I  wish  I  were  out 
now.  If  I  only  had  more  faith  I  would  ask  God  to 
help  me.  It's  the  only  thing  I  can  do.  Perhaps 
the  fact  that  I  wish  I  had  more  faith  would  count  in 
my  favor.  It  can  do  no  harm,  any  way,  to  ask  for 
aid,  and  there  is  an  odd  chance  that  it  might  be  just 
the  very  thing. ' ' 

But  Derringforth  felt  that  there  was  a  marked  dif- 
ference between  asking  aid  from  Heaven  in  the  case 
of  a  Shylock  and  in  the  matter  of  speculation.  He 
had  not  hesitated  in  the  one  instance,  but  now  his 
conscience  was  very  sensitive.  He  wondered  if  it 
would  not  seem  blasphemous  in  God's  sight.  He 
shrank  from  doing  anything  wrong,  but  the  case  was 
so  urgent  that  he  could  not  dismiss  it  from  his  mind. 
He  reasoned  a  long  time  with  himself,  and  then 
somehow  before  he  realized  what  he  was  doing  he 
was  reasoning  with  Heaven. 


XXIII. 

WHILE  Derringforth  was  in  his  room,  feverish  with 
anxiety  and  imploring  Heaven's  aid,  Marion  was 
breathing  in  delicious  draughts  of  love.  She  and 
Burton  Edwards  were  alone.  It  was  towards  mid- 
night. They  had  been  to  the  play,  but  came  away 
at  the  end  of  the  second  act.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kings- 
ley  had  gone  up  to  the  library. 

This  was  the  opportunity  Edwards  had  prayed  for. 
Marion  sat  on  the  sofa.  He  was  in  a  chair  a  little 
way  from  her.  He  wished  he  were  beside  her,  but 
just  how  to  get  there  was  the  question.  He  could 
hear  the  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  foyer,  and  knew 
that  the  precious  minutes  were  vanishing.  There 
were  so  many  things  to  say  and  so  little  time  to  say 
them  in,  that  he  found  a  beginning  difficult. 

He  felt  a  restraint  that  was  akin  to  awkwardness. 
This  feeling  was  intensified  by  the  fancy  that  sly 
laughter  lurked  in  Marion's  eyes.  His  cheeks  took 
on  a  deeper  red,  and  his  conversation  was  painfully 
aimless.  He  could  not  understand  himself.  Had 
he  not  rehearsed  a  thousand  times  the  words  that 
123 


now  filled  his  soul  to  bursting  ?  Why  should  they 
form  a  jam  just  at  this  time  and  clog  the  flow  of  his 
heart  ?  His  dreams  could  not  have  been  more  per- 
fectly mirrored  so  far  as  scene  and  time  were  con- 
cerned. There  was  no  third  party  present  to  chill 
his  spirits.  The  cozy  room  with  its  soft  silken  hang- 
ings, and  yet  softer  lights,  the  glow  of  the  cheery  fire 
in  the  grate,  the  midnight  hush  that  was  broken  only 
by  their  own  voices — all  contributed  harmony  to  the 
surroundings. 

"Won't  you  play  something,  Marion?"  he  said 
in  desperation  at  last. 

"Yes,  if  you  really  wish  me  to,"  answered  Ma- 
rion ;  "  but  are  you  quite  sure  you  do? " 

"  Quite — I'm  in  just  the  mood  for  music,"  he  re- 
plied, saying  to  himself  at  the  same  time,  "  May  the 
pardoning  angel  have  mercy  on  my  soul !  ' ' 

"  It's  a  rare  mood  for  you,  surely.  I  thought  you 
disliked  the  piano." 

"  That  depends  upon  who  plays  it." 

"  Then  I  am  sure  you  will  not  care  to  listen  to  an 
amateur. ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall.  Whatever  you  do  gives  me 
pleasure." 

Marion  blushed,  protested,  then  tripped  lightly 
across  the  room  to  the  piano. 

"  What  shall  I  play  ?  "  she  asked,  drumming  care- 
lessly on  the  keys. 

"  Anything  that  interests  you." 
124 


11  But  I  would  prefer  to  interest  you." 

"  You  are  sure  to  do  that  whatever  you  play,"  he 
answered,  throwing  a  good  deal  of  feeling  into  the 
words.  "  That's  something  like  it,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  This  little  scheme  will  put  me  at  my  ease." 

Marion  began  playing  bits  of  the  latest  airs.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  expression  in  her  touch,  but  it 
was  not  quite  natural  to  her  own  ears.  It  betrayed 
an  emotion  that  she  dreaded  to  recognize — one  that 
both  delighted  and  frightened  her. 

Edwards  watched  with  admiration  the  graceful  fin- 
gers as  they  flew  over  the  keys,  but  the  music  did  not 
reach  his  soul.  He  had  but  one  thought,  and  that 
one  was  embodied  in  Marion.  He  stood  beside  her 
and  turned  the  leaves  of  the  music. 

"Here  is  something  you  know,"  she  said,  begin- 
ning the  accompaniment  of  a  love  song  that  had 
caught  the  town.  "  Shall  we  sing  it  together  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Edwards  eagerly.  "It's  the 
very  thing  to  pave  the  way  for  me, ' '  he  said  to  him- 
self as  his  voice  blended  with  hers. 

The  love  of  his  soul  was  poured  out  in  the  words  of 
the  song.  It  thrilled  Marion.  She  was  powerless  to 
resist  the  spirit  that  permeated  the  very  atmosphere. 
She  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  That  look  set  his  soul 
on  fire.  All  the  passion  of  his  strong  nature  was 
aflame.  The  mad  impulse  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms, 
and  kiss  her,  was  a  delirium.  He  had  never  known 
what  consuming  love  was  until  now.  He  realized 
125 


that  a  false  move  would  be  death  to  his  hopes,  but  to 
restrain  himself  was  torture.  He  broke  away  from 
her  side,  leaving  the  song  unfinished,  and  walked 
quickly  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  He  went  to 
the  window  and  looked  out  into  the  night.  There, 
as  everywhere,  he  saw  only  Marion. 

He  came  back  to  the  sofa  and  threw  himself  upon 
it.  Marion  still  sat  at  the  piano.  There  was  intoxi- 
cation in  her  playing.  She  was  transported  beyond 
herself — was  under  the  spell  of  a  strong  man's  love, 
and  was  powerless  to  tear  herself  away. 

She  knew  why  Edwards  had  left  her  side  so  sud- 
denly, and  blessed  him  for  going,  and  yet  she  was 
sorry.  She  did  not  know  just  why  she  was  sorry. 
She  did  not  know  herself  even.  There  was  something 
in  his  nature  that  drew  her  towards  him  ;  there  was 
something  that  made  her  fear  him.  His  influence 
over  her  was  unlike  that  of  any  other  man.  She 
was  conscious  of  enjoying  the  love  that  he  breathed 
upon  her  ;  she  was  conscious  of  almost  hating  him 
for  tempting  her  own  love. 

He  watched  her  from  where  he  sat,  and  wondered 
what  her  thoughts  were — wondered  that  she  kept  on 
playing. 

"  If  she  were  like  other  girls,"  he  said  to  himself, 
' '  I  would  not  be  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do.  If  she 
were  like  other  girls  I  should  not  care  for  her.  There 
is  something  in  her  manner  that  says  to  me  '  so  far 
and  no  farther.1  " 

126 


His  mind  wandered  back  to  the  Sunday  evening 
when  Derringforth  had  fallen  like  a  meteor  upon  his 
vision.  The  hot  blood  burned  in  his  cheeks.  The 
pangs  of  jealousy  pierced  him.  His  eyes  were  still 
fixed  upon  Marion.  The  sway  of  her  graceful  figure 
was  poetry.  The  thought  that  possibly  she  loved 
Derringforth  was  torture.  He  wondered  if  she  would 
never  cease  playing.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  open- 
ing and  shutting  it  so  that  it  would  not  attract  her 
attention.  It  was  almost  midnight.  He  grew  im- 
patient and  raved  at  himself  for  the  fiasco  he  had 
made. 

"  Why  did  I  ever  ask  her  to  play  ?  "  he  groaned. 
"  People  never  know  when  to  stop  when  they  sit 
down  at  the  piano."  The  love  of  a  few  moments 
before  was  becoming  nullified.  He  found  himself 
getting  provoked.  It  seemed  to  him  indifference, 
even  rudeness  in  Marion  to  neglect  him  as  she  was 
doing.  He  was  upon  the  point  of  remonstrating 
when  she  turned  to  him  and  said  in  her  sweetest 
way  : 

' '  Now  are  you  not  sorry  you  asked  me  to  play  ?  ' ' 

One  look  from  her  eyes  melted  all  his  indignation, 
but  not  soon  enough  to  remove  the  traces  from  his 
face  before  she  saw  it. 

"  No,  certainly  not.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  was 
just  in  the  mood  for  music  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  can  read  your  feelings  better  than  you 
think." 

127 


"  How  do  you  interpret  them?"  asked  Edwards, 
coloring. 

The  blush  was  reflected  upon  Marion's  face. 

"I  won't  try  to  read  beyond  your  dislike  for  my 
playing.  I  have  been  very  rude — won't  you  forgive 
me?" 

"  I  would  forgive  you  anything,  but  really  there  is 
nothing  to  forgive. ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is — you  can't  deceive  me,  but 
I'll  promise  never  to  do  so  any  more.  I  wonder  if  it 
isn't  very  late  ?  I  forgot  all  about  time  while  I  was 
playing." 

"  Her  coolness  freezes  me,"  groaned  Edwards  in- 
wardly. "No,  it  is  not  so  horribly  late,"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  don't  feel  like  going  to  my  room.  Won't 
you  sit  here  a  little  while  yet  with  me  ?  " 

There  was  a  tender  pleading  in  his  tones  that  was 
love  to  Marion.  She  knew  she  ought  to  tear  herself 
away  from  it.  She  knew  that  she  was  powerless  to 
do  so.  She  did  not  want  him  to  propose  to  her ; 
she  did  not  want  to  check  the  delicious  draught  of 
nectar. 

He  got  up  and  walked  to  the  piano,  leaned  over  it 
and  looked  down  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  not  answered  me,"  he  said  softly. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stay  very  much  ?  "  she  said, 
turning  her  face  towards  his. 

"  More  than  you  can  realize,  Marion,"  he  replied, 
with  a  feeling  that  was  unmistakable. 
128 


She  swung  a  little  away  from  him  on  the  piano 
stool,  and  looked  down  irresolutely. 

"  Come  and  sit  here  beside  me,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand  and  leading  her  to  the  sofa. 

There  was  love  in  that  touch.  Edwards  felt  the 
warm  blood  bound  through  his  veins.  The  beating  of 
his  heart,  the  emotion  of  his  whole  nature,  choked  his 
utterance  for  a  moment.  The  stillness  was  broken 
only  by  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  The  fire  in  the 
grate  had  burned  low.  The  soft  light  sifting  through 
the  silken  shade  intensified  Marion's  beauty.  She 
sat  in  graceful  attitude  at  one  end  of  the  sofa.  Her 
head  rested  upon  her  hand.  She  was  the  perfect 
picture  of  delightful  irresolution.  A  dainty  foot  pro- 
truded from  beneath  her  gown.  Edwards  sat  a  little 
apart  from  her. 

"  Marion,"  he  said,  and  with  the  utterance  of  her 
name  he  unconsciously  moved  closer  to  her,  "  Ma- 
rion, I " 

The  sentence  was  suddenly  cut  short.  A  sharp 
ring  at  the  door  bell  startled  them.  Edwards  felt  the 
cold  perspiration  start  out  upon  his  brow.  The  bell 
rang  again,  and  yet  again. 


XXIV. 

THE  energy  behind  the  door  bell  was  a  devil  may 
care  telegraph  messenger.  He  liked  to  startle  people 
in  the  dead  of  night,  picturing  to  his  imagination, 
with  a  profane  grin,  the  look  on  their  frightened 
faces.  He  fancied  that  he  could  pull  a  bell  so  that 
it  would  ring  a  more  horrible  ring  than  could  be  proy 
duced  by  any  other  messenger  on  the  force — a  weird, 
dreadful  ring  that  would  carry  terror  with  it. 

It  was  a  peal  of  this  sort  that  sent  consternation  to 
the  heart  of  Burton  Edwards.  There  was  something 
strange  and  ominous  in  the  sound  as  it  broke  upon 
his  ears.  He  knew  as  surely  in  the  first  instant  as  a 
minute  later,  when  a  telegram  was  put  into  his  hand, 
that  something  had  happened  at  home. 

He  tore  open  the  envelope  with  trembling  fingers. 
His  face  was  white. 

"  Mother  is  very  ill.  Come  first  train.  Father." 
Edwards  spoke  the  words  aloud  as  his  eye  ran  over 
the  telegram.  He  handed  it  to  Marion  and  turned 
away  silently. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Marion  softly. 
130 


"  It  must  be  serious,"  answered  Edwards.  "  Fa- 
ther would  not  have  sent  such  a  message  otherwise. ' ' 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  so  bad  as  you  fancy.  Your 
father  might  have  been  suddenly  frightened,  and  tel- 
egraphed you  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment. ' ' 

"  No,  he  would  not  have  done  that.  I  am  sure 
that  he  has  kept  back  the  worst. ' ' 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Burton.  I  wish  I 
could  say  something  that  would  comfort  you. ' ' 

Edwards  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.  They  were  full 
of  tenderness  and  sympathy.  He  took  a  step  towards 
her  and  stretched  out  his  hands  as  one  imploring 
rescue.  She  gave  him  both  of  hers,  with  childlike 
trust.  Her  wish  was  to  comfort  him.  It  was  a  gen- 
erous, kindly  motive.  She  had  no  thought  for  her- 
self. But  the  pressure  upon  her  hands  awakened  the 
sense  of  danger.  The  impulse  to  tear  herself  from 
him  was  paralyzed.  She  could  not  escape.  He  drew 
her  closer  to  him  and  bent  his  head  towards  hers. 

' '  What  has  happened,  Marion  ?  ' '  called  her  father 
at  this  instant  from  above  stairs.  He  had  hurriedly 
dressed  and  come  from  his  room  to  learn  the  meaning 
of  the  frantic  ringing  of  the  bell. 

"It's  a  telegram,"  answered  Marion  in  trembling 
voice.  "A  telegram,"  she  repeated,  as  she  ran 
towards  him  like  one  escaping  from  some  frightful 
danger. 

Burton  Edwards  was  not  alone  with  her  again.  He 
took  the  early  morning  train  for  California.  When 


he  was  gone  Marion  went  to  her  own  room.  How 
big  and  empty  and  gloomy  the  house  seemed  !  Her 
head  ached  from  a  sleepless  night ;  her  heart  ached 
from  emotions  that  had  stirred  it  to  its  depths.  She 
stood  by  her  window  and  looked  out  into  the  cold, 
gray  morning. 

The  dim  light  was  sifting  in  through  the  darkness. 
The  fog  hung  damp  over  the  housetops,  settling  down 
in  the  streets  and  sending  a  chill  through  the  early 
pedestrians.  Marion  had  never  been  up  at  this  hour 
before ;  had  never  felt  such  a  sense  of  depression  be- 
fore. She  turned  away  with  a  shudder,  and  threw 
herself  wearily  upon  her  couch. 

The  furnace  sent  an  abundance  of  hot  air  into  her 
room,  but  it  did  not  warm  her.  She  drew  a  rug  over 
her  shoulders,  and  tried  to  forget  herself  in  sleep,  but 
the  funereal  atmosphere  was  too  depressing  for  slum- 
ber. She  opened  her  eyes  and  glanced  aimlessly  tow- 
ards her  writing  desk.  There  was  Phil  looking  down 
upon  her  from  his  silver  frame.  She  turned  her  face 
away  and  buried  it  beneath  the  rug. 

She  had  seen  the  picture  a  thousand  times  before, 
but  she  had  never  seen  it  as  she  saw  it  now.  There 
was  an  expression  in  the  face  that  sent  a  shudder  of 
self  condemnation  to  her  heart.  It  was  not  a  look  of 
accusation,  but  rather  one  of  surprise  and  pain.  Kind- 
ness and  love  were  in  the  eyes ;  sorrow  and  gloom 
were  about  the  mouth. 

The  tears  stole  down  Marion's  cheeks.     She  could 
132 


not  choke  back  the  sobs.  Her  heart  ached  with  an 
anguish  that  was  deeper  and  keener  than  before. 
The  sense  of  loneliness  had  yielded  to  a  different 
feeling.  She  knew  she  was  doing  wrong  in  breathing 
the  atmosphere  of  love  as  she  had  on  the  previous 
night.  She  did  not  do  it  in  defiance  of  her  con-  ' 
science.  She  felt  an  impulse  to  fly  from  Burton  Ed- 
wards. She  would  have  given  anything  to  be  safely 
beyond  his  influence,  and  yet  there  was  a  fascination 
so  strong,  so  subtle  in  the  nature  and  quality  of  his 
love — it  was  so  deliciously  intoxicating,  so  sweet  to 
her  young  life,  that  she  yielded  for  another  minute 
and  sipped  of  the  nectar  of  the  gods — just  another 
minute,  and  just  another  minute,  until  she  had  drifted 
almost  into  the  very  arms  of  passion. 

The  rug  could  not  hide  Phil's  face  from  her  eyes. 
She  could  see  him  looking  down  upon  her,  and  the 
expression  of  pain  and  sadness,  of  love  and  kindness, 
burned  into  her  very  soul.  It  was  the  most  severe 
reproach  to  her  sensitive  nature.  She  saw  herself  as 
she  had  never  seen  herself  before.  She  recalled  Phil's 
words  when  she  told  him  that  the  engagement  must 
be  postponed. 

"  We  can't  tell  what  changes  a  year  will  make  in 
us,"  he  had  said. 

"  The  year  is  up  today,"  meditated  Marion, 
"  and  we  have  changed — Phil  has  changed — I  have 
changed  more  than  he.  I  have  wanted  to  do  right 
by  him ;  I  have  wanted  to  care  only  for  him,  but  our 


lives  have  drifted  a  little  apart,  and  I  have  been  so 
completely  under  influences  that  have  led  me  away 
from  him.  This  does  not  justify  me,  I  know,  but  in  a 
way  it  palliates  the  offense.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  do 
always  the  same  under  different  circumstances.  If  I 
had  never  gone  into  this  gay  life  I  should  not  have 
cared  for  it.  I  should  have  known  nothing  of  admira- 
tion and  flattery.  It  is  a  life  by  itself — a  life  of  ex- 
citement and  intoxication.  I  must  either  be  one 
thing  or  another.  I  can't  be  half  society  girl  and 
half — half  something  else.  A  compromise  between 
the  two  would  make  me  half  wrong  and  half  stupid. 
I  can't  adjust  my  conscience  to  both.  Looking  at 
myself  in  one  way  I  feel  guilty ;  in  another  I  feel  that 
I  have  done  no  wrong.  If  girls  in  society  didn't  ac- 
cept attention  and  admiration — if  there  were  no  little 
flirtations  there  would  be  no  society — there  would  be 
nothing  in  it." 

This  line  of  reasoning  began  to  bring  relief  to 
Marion's  conscience.  The  expression  in  Phil's  eyes 
was  softer.  It  no  longer  pierced  her  heart  with  so 
keen  an  edge. 

"  It  would  not  be  so  very  terrible  to  be  a  little 
Puritan  with  puritanical  surroundings,"  she  contin- 
ued, "  but  in  this  age  and  in  the  metropolis  and  in 
society  life — no,  no,  it  can't  be  done.  The  Puritan 
would  be  a  dismal  failure.  I  couldn't  be  a  wall 
flower — I  wouldn't.  I'd  rather  belong  to  the  Salva- 
tion Army.  There  would  be  enthusiasm  there  at 


least,  and  anything  would  be  better  than  the  heart- 
ache, and  that  is  just  what  a  girl  has,  out  of  tune  with 
her  surroundings.  After  all,  I  can't  think  I  have 
done  so  very  wrong.  This  is  my  play  day — my  out- 
ing before  I  settle  down.  One  always  has  more  lati- 
tude on  an  outing — does  things  that  would — that 
would — well,  that  would  make  very  nice  old  ladies 
raise  their  eyebrows  in  a  terribly  suggestive  way.  So 
then,  looking  at  it  in  this  light,  I  think  I  ought  to  be 
allowed  just  a  little  abandon — ought  to  have  all  the 
good  times  I  can — in  a  proper  way,  of  course. 

"  But  there  is  the  question — what  is  proper  ?  I'm 
sure  of  one  thing,  and  that  is  that  I  am  not  required 
to  be  a  Puritan  in  these  days,  in  society,  any  way.  I 
suppose  that  a  real  little  Puritan,  if  she  had  been  in 
my  place  last  night  with  Burton  Edwards  and  he  had 
looked  into  her  eyes  as  he  looked  into  mine;  if  he 
had  breathed  the  love  upon  her  that  he  breathed 
upon  me  ;  if  he  had  taken  her  hands  in  his  as  he  took 
mine  in  his,  I  suppose — no,  I'm  not  so  sure — I  more 
than  half  believe  that  she  wouldn't  have  been  a  Puri- 
tan at  all.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  there  isn't  a  good 
deal  of  humbug  after  all  about  this  unnatural  goodness 
that  we  read  of  and  that  is  held  up  as  the  correct 
standard.  It's  an  insipid  sort  of  life,  it  seems  to  me. 
It  may  be  well  enough  for  exhibition,  but  if  there  is 
no  more  nature  and  impulse  in  it  than  we  are  led  to 
believe — if  the  inner  life  is  as  colorless  and  placid  as 
the  outer,  then  it  must  have  been  too  stupid  for  any- 
135 


thing.  But  I  can't  believe  it.  Human  nature  is  hu- 
man nature.  Without  its  impulses  and  fancies  and 
passions  it  would  be  as  flat  as  a  prairie  ;  as  uninterest- 
ing as  a  Puritan  Sunday." 

By  this  time  Marion  had  justified  herself  to  an  ex- 
tent that  effectually  soothed  her  conscience.  She  no 
longer  tried  to  hide  her  face  from  Phil's  eyes.  There 
was  nothing  in  them  now — nothing  about  the  expres- 
sion of  the  mouth  to  harrow  her  feelings. 

"  Things  are  much  as  we  see  them,"  she  medi- 
tated. "  Fancy  has  so  much  to  do  with  every- 
thing." 

Her  face  was  turned  towards  Phil's.  She  saw  noth- 
ing of  the  look  of  half  an  hour  before.  ' '  He  is  the 
same  dear  boy  he  always  was, ' '  she  said  to  herself.  ' '  I 
suppose  he  would  think  it  very  wrong,  though,  if  he 
really  knew.  He  would  have  a  right  to  be  jealous — 
I  should  be  horribly  jealous  myself  if  he  were  flirting 
with  some  other  girl.  This  is  as  much  as  to  say 
I  was  flirting  with  Burton,  but — I  don't  know.  I 
didn't  think  of  it  in  that  way.  He  was  visiting  us  and 
I — well,  I  just  lived  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  love.  I 
couldn't  be  rude  to  him.  I  didn't  try  to  make  him 
care  for  me;  I  didn't  want  him  to  care  for  me,  but 
somehow  I  closed  my  eyes  and  drifted — and  such 
drifting  ! 

"  But  I  wonder  if  Phil  could  see  it  in  this  way.  It 
almost  seems  to  me  that  I  can  argue  myself  into  believ- 
ing anything  is  right.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong— perhaps 
136 


I  have  done  very  wrong,  but  the  more  I  reason  the 
more  I  justify  myself.  Perhaps  this  is  the  way  with 
every  one  who  does  wrong.  I  wonder  if  it  is.  If  so, 
I  can  see  how  many  who  want  to  do  right  and  intend 
to  do  right,  do  wrong.  Oh,  dear  me,  it  is  all  very 
puzzling.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  everything  to  Phil. 
If  he  doesn't  reprove  me  then  I've  no  need  to  think 
any  more  about  it. 

"  But  it  would  be  pretty  hard  to  tell  Phil,  and  after 
all,  would  it  do  any  good  ?  It  might  make  him  un- 
happy, and  if  I  really  have  done  wrong,  telling  him 
would  not  undo  it.  It  would  simply  make  matters 
worse.  Still,  he  has  a  right  to  know — I  should  want 
to  know.  Perhaps  there  are  some  things  he  has  not 
told  me.  Well,  so  long  as  I  don't  know  them  I  shall 
not  worry — it's  foolish  to  think  of  such  a  thing  about 
Phil — he  is  simply  old  gold.  I  can't  imagine  him 
caring  for  any  one  except  myself;  he  never  did.  I'm 
glad  he  hasn't  gone  into  this  gay  life.  If  he  had — no, 
no,  I  won't  think  of  it." 

But  she  did  think  of  it  nevertheless,  and  her  heart 
beat  heavily  as  she  pictured  to  her  imagination  scenes 
not  unlike  that  of  the  previous  night  between  Burton 
Edwards  and  herself,  but  in  which  Phil  and  some  other 
girl  were  the  participants. 

Now  that  Edwards  had  gone,  Marion  had  no  longer 
any  excuse  for  delaying  the  hour  of  Phil's  call.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  ought  to  write  him  and  say  that 
she  was  alone  and  would  reserve  the  evening  for  him. 


"  I  wish  the  engagement  had  never  been  postponed," 
she  said  to  herself  once  more,  looking  as  one  peering 
into  the  future.  "  It  would  have  been  better  in  every 
way.  Mama  thinks  I  shall  do  as  she  wants  me  to ; 
Phil  thinks,  I  fancy,  that  I  shall  do  as  he  wants  me  to. 
I  can't  please  both,  that  is  one  thing  certain.  What- 
ever the  result  is,  I  shall  not  act  meanly — I  shall  write 
Phil  to  call  tonight.  I  don't  know  how  it  will  come 
out,  but  that  makes  no  difference  just  now  ;  right  is 
right,  anyway." 


XXV. 

DERRINGFORTH  had  been  at  his  office  perhaps  an 
hour  when  a  messenger  brought  him  a  note  from  Ma- 
rion. It  said  in  effect  that  Edwards  had  been  sud- 
denly called  home  and  that  she  was  now  free  for  the 
evening. 

"  I  hope  you  have  no  engagement,"  she  added. 
' '  It  has  been  a  long  time  since  we  have  had  a  whole 
evening  to  ourselves. ' ' 

"  This  is  a  devil  of  a  fix,"  said  Derringforth,  still 
holding  the  note  in  his  hand.  "  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  ;  I  don't  know  where  I  stand — maybe  I'm  bank- 
rupt for  all  I  know.  But  I'm  glad,  any  way,  that 
Edwards  has  gone  ;  that's  one  thing  sure.  I  shall 
feel  a  heap  more  comfortable,  even  if  this  Wall  Street 
business  breaks  me.  I  wonder  how  the  market  will 
open  !  " 

Derringforth  took  out  his  watch  mechanically, 
looked  at  the  time  and  saw  nothing.  His  face  wore 
an  expression  of  perplexity.  The  exchange  had  not 
yet  opened.  His  anxiety  was  painful,  but  withal  he 
felt  a  sense  of  happiness  that  made  his  heart  lighter. 


The  messenger  still  waited  for  an  answer.  His 
presence  increased  Derringforth 's  nervousness.  The 
watch  came  out  again.  It  wanted  fifteen  minutes  to 
ten. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  reasoned  Derring- 
forth.  "  I  want  more  than  anything  else  to  spend  the 
evening  with  Marion,  but  ten  days  would  give  me  a 
chance  to  put  myself  in  better  shape.  I  wonder  why 
Edwards  was  called  home  so  suddenly  !  I  almost  wish 
he  had  stayed.  No,  I  don't,  either,"  he  added,  jerk- 
ing out  the  words  almost  savagely. 

After  ten  minutes  of  vacillation  Derringforth  sent 
the  messenger  away  without  an  answer,  and  in  a  very 
little  time  sought  a  consultation  with  Burrock. 

Western  Union  had  opened  within  a  quarter  of  a 
point  of  the  closing  price,  but  that  quarter  was  against 
Derringforth. 

"  Don't  feel  alarmed,"  said  Burrock.  "  It  is  hold- 
ing up  splendidly — bears  are  hammering  it  with  a  ven- 
geance, but  I  think  we  shall  see  a  turn  in  our  favor. ' ' 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Derringforth.  "I  never 
needed  money  so  much  in  my  life  as  I  do  at  this  min- 
ute," and  he  told  Burrock  of  Marion's  note. 

Burrock  raised  his  eyebrows  and  emitted  a  shrill 
little  whistle.  Derringforth  looked  at  him  interroga- 
tively. 

"  What  shall  you  do  ?  "  asked  Burrock,  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders. 

"What  should  I  do  ?  " 
140 


"  I  don't  mind  advising  you  in  the  matter  of  spec- 
ulation, old  man,  but — well,  I'm  too  conservative,  I 
fancy." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Simple  enough.  See — I  go  into  the  market  and 
buy  a  thousand  shares  of  stock — five  thousand,  per- 
haps— it  is  all  chance — I  know  it,  but  on  the  size  of 
the  chance  I  can  give  a  good  estimate — I  know  what 
is  liable  to  happen.  But  beyond  this  I  am  conserva- 
tive— understand  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Burrock — you  are  cynical,  and  you 
are  in  a  more  cynical  mood  than  usual." 

"  Perhaps  so,  but — well,  I've  told  you  the  way  I 
feel.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ? — anything  but  advise 
you  where  woman  enters  into  the  problem — the  com- 
plications are  too  many,  too  great — chance  runs  riot 
— that's  all — excuse  me,  old  man,  excuse  me — think 
it  out  yourself  and  leave  this  stock  deal  with  me. 
I'll  stand  by  you." 

Derringforth  was  inclined  to  be  amused  at  first,  but 
the  unusual  seriousness  of  Burrock  impressed  him  with 
a  strange  feeling.  He  had  never  thought  of  woman 
in  this  sense.  The  conception  sent  a  little  shudder 
through  him. 

"  You  will  change  your  mind,  Burrock,"  he  said, 
"  some  of  these  days,  and  then  you  will  be  sorry  you 
ever  deluded  yourself  with  such  ideas." 

Burrock  smiled.     It  was  a  smile  that  seemed  to 
say,  "You  poor,  simple  boy,  I  pity  you." 
141 


Derringforth  colored  and  felt  uncomfortable.  He 
did  not  like  this  attitude  in  Burrock,  but  there  was 
no  time  for  argument  now.  He  had  slipped  away 
from  his  office  to  learn  something  of  the  venture  that 
meant  happiness  or  misery  to  him.  His  decision  as  to 
whether  he  should  spend  the  evening  with  Marion 
depended  wholly  upon  the  state  of  the  market.  With 
a  good  profit  in  sight  he  would  not  hesitate,  but 
with  a  loss  in  view  he  would  skirmish  for  more  time. 
Now  that  Edwards  was  no  longer  with  her,  Derring- 
forth did  not  regard  the  delay  of  a  few  days  as  so 
serious. 

Burrock  was  called  aside  and  Derringforth  stepped 
up  to  the  ticker  and  read  the  quotations.  His  fingers 
trembled  slightly  as  he  held  the  tape  in  his  hands. 
The  market,  as  a  whole,  was  strengthening.  He 
watched  with  anxious  eyes  for  a  quotation  on  Western 
Union.  His  time  was  up.  He  had  already  been 
away  from  his  office  too  long. 

He  turned  to  go.  Burrock  called  to  him  to  wait  a 
minute.  He  stepped  back  to  the  ticker.  Western 
Union  had  advanced  an  eighth.  He  felt  a  thrill  of 
excitement — only  an  eighth,  but  it  meant  so  much  to 
him. 

"I  told  you  it  would  come  out  all  right,"  said 
Burrock,  always  cool. 

"  You  are  a  prophet,  old  man,"  returned  Derring- 
forth. 

"  On  the  market,"  suggested  Burrock  with  a  look 
142 


that  awakened  an  indefinable  sense  of  repugnance  in 
Derringforth. 

Presently  he  went  back  to  his  office  and  telegraphed 
Marion  that  he  would  answer  her  note  later  in  the 
day. 

Western  Union  climbed  up  a  little  during  the  after- 
noon, but  did  not  reach  the- point  of  Derringforth' s 
purchase.  The  market  closed  with  good  feeling, 
however,  and  Burrock,  as  well  as  all  the  bull  clique, 
looked  for  better  prices  on  the  following  day. 

"  I'm  better  off  by  a  quarter  of  a  point,  any  way, 
than  I  was  last  night,"  said  Derringforth  to  himself, 
noting  the  closing  quotations.  "  But  I  don't  like 
this  frightful  anxiety.  I  wonder  what  I  should  say  to 
Marion.  Perhaps  tomorrow  will  bring  me  out  all 
right — perhaps  it  will  ruin  me.  I  must  have  another 
day  at  least.  If  I  were  to  go  to  her  tonight  I  should 
have  to  ask  that  the  engagement  be  postponed.  If  I 
could  only  have  ten  days  more  and  a  rising  market — 
but  I  have  no  excuse  for  asking  for  the  delay  as  she 
had." 

He  compromised  by  asking  for  one  day,  saying  he 
was  very  sorry,  but  that  he  had  a  matter  on  hand  that 
would  make  it  impossible  for  him  to  call  that  evening. 

He  did  not  offer  any  explanation  ;  he  simply  stated 
the  fact.  This  was  a  way  he  had.  It  was  a  fault  of 
his  ;  it  is  a  fault  of  too  many  people.  A  matter  is 
clear  to  them.  It  should  be.  They  know  all  the 
attending  circumstances,  see  it  in  its  various  shad- 
'43 


ings,  its  various  lights.  They  state  the  bare  fact  and 
expect  others  to  see  it  as  they  see  it,  and  then  wonder 
at  the  stupidity  of  the  world.  A  little  more  atten- 
tion to  details,  a  little  more  effort  to  make  things 
clear — to  bring  out  the  feeling,  the  intent,  the  spirit, 
would  rid  life  of  a  wonderful  amount  of  friction 
— would  bring  happinqss  to  many  a  gloomy  home, 
would  bring  sweetness  and  sunshine  to  many  an  ach- 
ing heart. 

"  I  shall  be  free  tomorrow  evening,"  wrote  Der- 
ringforth  in  closing  his  note,  "  and  will  call  on  you 
then,  providing  of  course  that  you  have  no  engage- 
ment. I  wish  I  could  see  you  tonight.  I'm  sure 
the  time  seems  no  longer  to  you  than  it  does  to  me 
since  we  have  had  an  evening  together." 


XXVI. 

MARION  had  been  at  some  social  function.  It  was 
nearly  six  o'clock  when  she  returned  home.  Der- 
ringforth's  note  was  awaiting  her.  She  had  received 
his  telegram  and  had  wondered  that  he  could  not  tell 
when  he  sent  it  whether  he  was  free  for  the  evening 
or  not.  She  had  thought  a  little  about  it  ;  specu- 
lated a  little  about  it. 

She  could  understand  that  there  might  be  several 
reasons  why  he  could  not  answer,  at  the  time  of  tele- 
graphing, definitely  whether  he  could  or  could  not 
spend  the  evening  with  her.  But  she  wished  that  she 
knew  just  what  the  cause  was.  The  thought  kept 
coming  into  her  mind,  though  she  banished  it  a  hun- 
dred times. 

She  tore  open  the  note  with  rather  more  eagerness 
than  she  liked  to  display.  Her  mother  saw  this — saw 
the  color  that  flashed  to  her  cheeks.  Marion  looked 
up  and  caught  her  mother's  eye.  She  felt  annoyed 
that  she  should  have  shown  any  feeling,  and  went 
quickly  to  her  own  room. 

There  were  traces  of  disappointment  in  her  face  as 


she  saw  herself  in  the  mirror.  She  read  the  letter 
again,  and  repeated  the  words,  "  I  have  a  matter  in 
hand  that  will  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  call  this 
evening. ' ' 

"  He  might  as  well  not  have  written  the  note. 
He  could  have  said  in  the  telegram  that  he  wasn't 
coming.  I  should  have  been  quite  as  wise — some- 
thing that  he  doesn't  want  me  to  know,  perhaps — 
more  diplomatic  to  telegraph  and  then  write — looks 
as  if  he  had  made  the  effort  to  come  but  could  not 
arrange  to  do  so. ' ' 

Marion  threw  off  her  wraps  and  tried  to  throw  off 
the  disappointment  that  held  her  in  its  depressing 
grasp,  but  she  could  not  free  herself — could  not  help 
feeling  hurt  that  Phil  should  treat  her  so  indifferently. 
She  remembered  the  readiness  with  which  he  had  as- 
sented to  the  suggestion  in  her  note  that  his  call 
should  be  postponed.  It  seemed  very  generous  of 
him  at  the  time,  but  now  it  appeared  in  a  somewhat 
different  light.  The  shading  was  not  the  same. 
Many  unhappy  fancies  flitted  through  her  mind,  each 
leaving  a  sting. 

She  was  not  accustomed  to  suffering.  While 
Derringforth  had  learned  to  bear  the  grasp  of  a  Shy- 
lock's  hand — had  learned  to  know  the  ache  of  a  bur- 
dened soul,  Marion  had  been  flattered  and  enter- 
tained and  courted.  She  had  had  all  the  pleasures 
that  wealth  and  society  and  adoration  could  give. 
It  was  a  new  sensation  to  be  treated  with  what  she  re- 
146 


garded  as  indifference,  and  it  hurt.  She  did  not  bear 
the  pain  as  one  accustomed  to  disappointments.  The 
depression  clung  to  her  until  it  was  gradually  crowded 
back  by  the  feeling  of  resentment. 

"  I  have  not  been  used  to  such  indifference,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  I  offered  to  give  up  the  evening 
and  tried  to  be  nice  to  him,  and  I'm  simply  in- 
formed that  it  will  be  impossible  for  him  to  be  with 
me.  He  owed  me  more  explanation  than  this.  I 
would  not  have  treated  him  as  he  has  treated  me.  I 
wish  I  knew  where  he  was  going.  I  have  foolishly 
flattered  myself  that  he  never  went  anywhere;  I 
have  thought  of  him  as  a  sort  of  saint,  but  one  can't 
tell  much  about  a  man,  any  way.  I  should  have 
kept  closer  to  him.  I  have  been  blind  and  have 
worried  like  a  little  idiot,  thinking  I  was  not  doing 
right  by  him.  How  many  good  times  I  have  lost !  I 
wish  Burton  were  here;  he  would  not  treat  me  in 
this  way.  Phil  has  changed  so.  He  isn't  a  bit  as 
he  used  to  be.  I  can't  understand  him  ;  he  doesn't 
help  me  to  understand  him.  Maybe  he  doesn't  un- 
derstand me,  and  feels  a  restraint  that  makes  him  ap- 
pear as  he  does." 

At  the  last  minute  Marion  decided  to  go  to  the 
Harburys' .  It  was  to  be  a  brilliant  party,  but  she  was 
not  in  the  mood  for  social  festivities  ;  and  yet  she  could 
not  endure  the  thought  of  remaining  at  home  alone. 
A  year  before  she  would  have  liked  the  prospect  of 
such  an  evening.  But  books  did  not  interest  her 
147 


now  as  they  did  then.  They  lacked  the  stimulant 
that  she  had  learned  to  crave. 

Mrs.  Kingsley  was  exceedingly  glad  when  she 
learned  that  Derringforth  was  not  coming  and  that 
Marion  was  to  go  with  her  to  the  Harburys'.  She 
had  not  been  blind  to  Burton  Edwards'  admiration 
for  her  daughter,  and  she  saw  with  much  satisfaction 
that  Marion  enjoyed  his  society.  There  was  a  sense 
of  safety  in  this  to  Mrs.  Kingsley's  mind.  The 
presence  of  Edwards,  she  argued,  would  tend  to  wean 
Marion  from  Derringforth.  It  would  at  least  cause 
her  to  see  less  of  him.  And  then  there  was  always 
the  possibility  of  some  complication  that  would 
bring  about  unlocked  for  changes.  Delay  was  the 
thing  to  fight  for,  she  told  herself.  In  it  her  hope 
lay. 

Had  the  suspicion  occurred  to  her  that  Marion 
was  upon  the  point  of  falling  in  love  with  Edwards, 
she  would  at  once  have  regarded  him  with  an  utterly 
different  feeling.  Her  object  was  to  keep  Marion 
from  marrying  until  she  was  at  least  twenty  five.  So 
far  as  Edwards  aided  her  in  this  purpose,  just  so  far 
he  was  especially  welcome  at  her  house.  She  liked 
him.  Her  regard  for  him  was  genuine,  and  so  long 
as  he  did  nothing  more  than  win  Marion  towards 
him — not  to  him — she  encouraged  the  association. 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  her  that  he  was  so  sud- 
denly called  away.  She  expected  as  a  matter  of 
course,  now  he  was  gone,  that  Marion  would  give  up 
148 


the  evening  to  Derringforth.  The  day  had  been 
fraught  with  anxiety.  She  could  not  quite  believe  that 
Marion  would  ignore  her  wishes  entirely  and  engage 
herself  to  Derringforth,  and  yet  there  was  the  possi- 
bility that  she  would. 

Marion  surveyed  herself  in  the  mirror  when  she 
was  dressed.  "  I  never  looked  so  jaded  and  old  be- 
fore," she  thought.  "  It  must  be  dreadful  to  grow 
old  and  ugly — to  feel  that  the  power  to  attract  has 
gone — that  the  younger  and  prettier  faces  have  all 
the  attention  and  admiration.  My  cheeks  are  faded 
out ;  my  eyes  look  as  if  I  had  had  no  sleep  for  a  week. 
Oh  dear,  I  wish  I  were  going  to  stay  at  home  !  I'm 
tired  and  disappointed  and  unhappy.  I  shall  be  as 
stupid  as  anything,  I  know.  If  Phil  had  only  come 
we  could  have  had  a  quiet  evening.  I  wonder  what  is 
keeping  him  away  ?  What  would  he  think  of  me  if 
he  should  see  how  jaded  I  look  ?  Would  he  want  to 
marry  me  now,  I  wonder? — it  was  just  a  year  ago 
tonight — how  happy  I  was — I  would  give  the  world 
to  be  as  happy  now — to  feel  that  he  loves  me  just  as 
he  did  then  and  to  have  him  tell  me  again  of  his  love 
as  he  did  then." 


XXVII. 

IT  is  said  that  the  unexpected  usually  happens  in 
Wall  Street.  Derringforth  had  spent  the  evening  in 
company  with  Burrock  and  they  had  talked  with  a 
number  of  speculators.  The  consensus  of  opinion 
was  that  there  would  be  a  strong,  active  market  on 
the  following  day.  He  went  home  buoyant  with 
hope  and  eager  for  the  night  to  pass. 

The  sun  came  up  and  hid  itself  behind  a  leaden 
sky.  Derringforth  looked  out  from  the  window  of 
his  room.  The  dull  light,  the  bleak  wind,  and  the 
thought  that  it  was  Friday  awakened  a  feeling  of 
anxiety.  He  knew  that  the  nerves  of  Wall  Street 
men  lie  close  to  the  surface — knew  how  susceptible 
they  were  to  the  influence  of  little  things,  even  to 
the  state  of  the  weather  and  the  day  of  the  week,  if 
the  day  happened  to  be  Friday.  But,  true  to  the 
predictions  of  the  night  before,  the  market  opened 
firmer.  Burrock  was  early  on  the  scene.  He 
fancied  he  could  trace  the  hand  of  a  combination 
trying  to  force  prices,  and  satisfied  himself  that  the 
apparent  strength  was  artificial  and  would  not  last. 
150 


He  concluded  to  unload  a  portion  of  his  holdings, 
and  with  the  sale  of  his  stock  sold  three  hundred 
shares  of  Derringforth's.  The  price  obtained  was 
slightly  below  the  cost,  netting  the  latter  a  loss,  with 
interest  and  brokerage,  of  a  trifle  over  ninety  dollars. 
An  hour  later  the  stock  had  sagged  three  quarters  of 
a  point.  The  market  finally  became  dull  and  weak, 
and  remained  so  throughout  the  day. 

Derringforth  was  thankful  that  the  three  hundred 
shares  of  his  holdings  had  been  sold.  At  the  closing 
price  of  Western  Union  he  could  dispose  of  the  two 
hundred  shares  he  still  held  at  a  loss  of  something 
over  two  hundred  dollars.  This,  together  with  the 
loss  on  the  shares  already  sold,  would  make  the  trans- 
action show  a  net  loss  of  a  trifle  over  three  hun- 
dred. This  was  the  status  of  his  second  Wall  Street 
venture  at  the  end  of  the  day,  and  it  did  not  furnish 
a  highly  gratifying  outlook  with  which  to  go  to  Mar- 
ion. But  this  was  not  the  worst  phase  of  the  sit- 
uation. Van  Stump  had  given  another  turn  to  the 
twist. 

After  picking  himself  up,  on  the  morning  when 
Derringforth  threw  him  out  of  the  office,  Strum  lost 
no  time  in  acquainting  his  master  with  all  that  had 
occurred  at  the  Derringforths' .  Van  Stump  was 
white  with  anger. 

"They  shall  pay  dearly  for  this,"  he  said,  bring- 
ing his  fist  down  upon  the  library  table  in  a  way  that 
emphasized  his  words.  "I  will  bring  that  young 


dog  to  his  knees — he  shall  learn  what  it  means  to  in- 
sult a  representative  of  mine  !  ' ' 

"  It  was  very  humiliating  to  be  thrown  in  a  heap," 
sniveled  Strum,  rubbing  his  smarting  knee. 

"  It's  exasperating — people  I  have  been  trying  to 
help,  too — I'll  show  them  what  is  what.  I'll  crush 
them  to  the  earth — yes,  to  the  earth,  the  beggars ! 
I'll  take  the  conceit  out  of  that  young  whelp.  He 
carries  his  head  too  high — too  high,  Strum.  You  will 
see  his  nose  in  the  dust.  I  have  wanted  to  get  my 
hands  on  him,  and  now  the  time  has  come.  I  have 
another  reason,  too,  for  humbling  the  young  upstart. ' ' 

Had  Strum  succeeded  in  his  effort  to  see  the  books 
of  the  Derringforths,  Van  Stump  would  have  known 
exactly  where  to  strike.  It  is  one  thing  to  get  into 
a  rage  and  threaten  to  do  a  thing  ;  it  is  quite  another 
matter  to  do  it. 

But  Van  Stump's  anger  was  aroused.  He  was 
usually  too  cold  to  be  moved  outwardly.  It  was  not 
his  regard  for  his  agent  in  this  instance  that  stirred 
his  wrath.  Had  it  been  some  one  other  than  Der- 
ringforth  who  had  thrown  the  sycophantic  Strum  out 
of  his  office,  Van  Stump's  coolness  would  have  been 
unperturbed.  He  knew  of  the  relations  between 
Marion  and  Phil.  Since  she  had  become  a  favorite 
in  society  he  had  acquainted  himself  with  her  history. 
The  fact  that  Derringforth's  name  was  so  closely  as- 
sociated with  hers  caused  him  to  feel  a  sense  of  power 
over  her,  since  his  hand  was  at  Derringforth's  throat. 


Van  Stump,  like  most  bachelors  of  his  type,  was 
not  sensitive.  It  made  little  difference  to  him  what 
people  said  of  him.  He  was  Van  Stump,  in  his  own 
consciousness — Van  Stump,  the  millionaire.  What 
need  he  care  about  the  opinions  of  envious  poverty 
or  the  feelings  of  striplings,  as  he  called  young  men, 
whom  he  was  wont  to  brush  aside  with  an  air  of  in- 
difference to  their  existence  ? 

His  money  was  a  great  big  fact.  He  knew  its 
power  and  made  use  of  it.  The  smile  of  a  scheming 
mother  or  the  love  glances  of  her  fawning  daughter 
amused  him.  He  liked  all  this,  and  talked  the  sweet 
nonsense  of  youth.  He  knew  that  his  money  was 
the  target  for  aspiring  poverty. 

He  always  saw  two  faces — the  one  fair  and  ingen- 
uous, in  which  the  soul  of  true,  sweet  womanhood 
shone  with  a  look  of  trust  in  him — of  admiration  for 
him ;  the  other  artful,  cunning,  cold,  selfish — an  ex- 
pression that  seemed  to  say,  ' '  You  old  fool !  how  I 
am  humbugging  you,  but  your  gold  is  well  worth  the 
sacrifice.  It  will  be  but  a  year  or  two,  and  you  will 
be  under  the  sod,  and  the  money  once  in  my  hands 
the  world  will  be  mine." 

But  this  did  not  affect  Van  Stump.  His  philoso- 
phy was  greater  than  his  cynicism.  "  It  is  all  a  game 
of  bluff,"  he  had  said  to  himself  many  times,  "and 
woman  is  not  the  only  one  that  can  play  at  it. ' ' 

He  liked  to  be  with  girls  who  had  the  beauty 
and  freshness  of  youth.  For  those  who  were  begin- 
'53 


ning  to  drop  back  into  the  second  tier  he  had  no 
time.  They  did  not  interest  him.  His  object  was 
simply  to  be  amused.  He  had  no  motive  other  than 
this.  There  was  no  sentiment  in  his  soul  that  reached 
beyond  the  present.  He  had  no  attachments.  One 
life  meant  to  him  little  more  than  another.  The  girl 
who  interested  him  most  was  the  one  from  whom  he 
could  get  most.  Persistence  was  a  notable  character- 
istic of  his.  He  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word  rebuff.  His  assurance  fitted  him  perfectly  for 
the  part  he  played. 

"If  the  striplings  think  me  rude  what  need  I 
care?"  he  said  to  himself.  "  If  some  one  yawns 
mentally  and  wishes  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
what  need  I  care?  If  a  girl  amuses  me  I  talk  to 
her  and  spend  money  on  her.  But  I  am  not  con- 
cerned as  to  whether  I  interest  her  or  not.  That  is 
her  affair,  not  mine.  If  she  avoids  me,  what  is  the 
odds  ?  There  are  hundreds  of  others — every  year  an 
army  of  debutantes  is  let  loose  upon  the  world — and 
the  clink  of  gold  hath  charms.  With  ten  millions  in 
my  pocket  I  shall  never  grow  old.  I  may  totter  on 
my  staff  and  yet  shall  I  be  an  Apollo.  Money  is  al- 
ways in  its  prime,  and  since  in  a  sense  I  am  money, 
I  am  and  ever  shall  be  in  my  prime. ' ' 

Van  Stump  reduced  everything  to  a  basis  of  math- 
ematical calculation.  There  was  no  impulse  —  no 
soul  in  his  nature.  He  never  devoted  attention  to 
any  one  without  getting  a  quid  pro  quo  for  the  time 
'54 


and  money  spent.  New  faces — new  affairs  alone  in- 
terested him.  There  was  no  stimulant — no  intoxi- 
cation in  old  associations.  Whenever  he  began  to 
weary  of  a  girl  he  dropped  her.  He  felt  no  com- 
punction in  doing  this. 

"  She  would  do  the  same  by  me,"  he  told  himself, 
"  but  suppose  she  wouldn't,  what  is  the  odds?  I  am 
not  in  this  thing  for  charity.  I  pay  for  all  I  get.  I 
buy  whatever  suits  my  fancy.  The  transaction  is 
cash.  I  run  up  no  bills — place  myself  under  no 
obligations — keep  no  books.  One  day  a  certain 
temperament  suits  my  mood ;  at  another  time  a 
different  one  gives  me  most  pleasure ;  that  is  all 
there  is  of  it. ' ' 

Van  Stump  was  not  an  anomaly.  There  are  others 
whose  god  is  this  same  philosophy — men  who  take 
girls  to  the  play,  lavish  flowers  upon  them,  and  en- 
tertain them  regally — not  because  of  any  deep  ad- 
miration for  them,  or  any  innate  desire  to  give  them 
pleasure,  but  because  some  such  association  is  essential 
to  their  own  enjoyment.  There  is  no  generosity  in 
this.  It  is  merely  a  cold  business  transaction — an 
investment  of  time  and  money  that  brings  profitable 
returns. 

Van  Stump  saw  much  in  Marion  to  admire.  He 
liked  her  bright  face.  Her  conversation  was  clever 
and  sparkling;  there  was  laughter  and  mischief  in 
her  eyes. 

He  had  annoyed  her  with  his  attention  ever  since 


her  debut  in  society.  His  persistence,  when  a  sense 
of  decency  should  have  told  him  that  he  was  de  trop, 
exasperated  her.  Her  dislike  grew  finally  into  de- 
testation, but  her  diplomatic  mother  had  steadily 
urged  the  desirability  of  hiding  her  feelings.  She 
had  obeyed  the  injunction  and  made  herself  dis- 
creetly agreeable  to  Van  Stump.  But  the  fact  of  his 
power  over  Derringforth  added  to  his  boldness,  and 
made  him  even  more  persistent  with  Marion  than 
with  other  girls. 

He  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  command  her  time, 
and  he  made  himself  more  offensive  in  his  attention 
than  usual.  Marion  at  length  rebelled  and  declared 
that  she  would  not  be  tormented  by  him.  "  He  is 
the  worst  old  boor,"  she  said  to  her  mother,  "and 
is  so  rude.  No  matter  who  is  talking  with  me  he 
crowds  his  way  up  and  simply  monopolizes  conver- 
sation with  his  stale  compliments  and  threadbare, 
sentimental  rubbish.  I  am  tired  of  it,  and  will  not 
submit  to  it  any  longer." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  be  hasty,  my  dear,"  replied 
her  mother  with  a  persuasive  smile.  "It  is  always 
well  to  be  discreet. ' ' 

"  Discretion  isn't  to  be  thought  of  any  longer  in 
his  case,"  returned  Marion.  "He  doesn't  know 
the  meaning  of  the  word  himself,  and  I  shall  not 
know  its  meaning  again  where  he  is  concerned." 

She  was  not  quite  so  brave  at  first  as  she  thought 
she  would  be ;  yet  true  to  her  purpose  she  did  snub 
156 


him,  and  in  a  way  that  would  have  settled  a  man  of 
finer  fiber.  But  it  had  no  effect  on  Van  Stump.  He 
laughed  at  the  feebleness  of  the  effort  and  pressed  his 
attention  with  malicious  persistency.  He  had  laughed 
too  soon.  He  did  not  know  the  spirit  of  the  girl 
he  was  tormenting.  He  made  the  discovery  a  little 
later — too  late  for  his  peace  of  mind.  He  had  re- 
garded himself  as  too  indifferent  to  be  annoyed  by 
any  girl,  however  she  might  choose  to  treat  him. 
Van  Stump,  in  his  estimation,  Van  Stump,  the  mill- 
ionaire, was  impervious  to  any  shafts  of  satire  that  a 
woman  might  send  at  him.  He  could  coolly  laugh 
at  her  fuming — could  enjoy  as  a  mild  joke  the  harm- 
less sputterings  of  her  rage. 

But  he  learned  that  there  are  exceptions — learned 
the  smart  of  humiliation ;  felt  the  sting  of  anger  as  it 
burned  into  a  consuming  blaze. 

Marion  had  tried  to  make  herself  understood 
by  gentle  means,  but  she  soon  saw  that  diplomacy 
was  of  no  avail  and  determined  to  fence  no  fur- 
ther. 

"I  will  not  allow  him  to  annoy  me  any  more," 
she  told  herself  with  a  flash  of  fire  in  her  eyes,  and 
then  she  told  him  the  same  thing.  She  spoke  the 
words  coolly,  but  with  a  decision  that  was  a  revelation 
to  Van  Stump.  He  had  never  met  a  girl  before  who 
had  the  spirit  to  turn  upon  him,  and  for  a  minute  he 
was  nonplussed.  Then  he  began  to  laugh  as  if  it  were 
a  great  joke,  but  her  words  rankled  within  him  and 


he  felt  the  tremor  of  anger  forcing  the  perspiration 
from  his  pores. 

"Whenever  you  have  finished  laughing,"  she  said 
in  a  cuttingly  satirical  tone,  "I  shall  make  myself 
even  plainer.  We  have  misunderstood  each  other 
quite  long  enough,  Mr.  Van  Stump." 

One  remark  led  to  another  until  Van  Stump  had 
seen  a  picture  of  himself  that  he  could  scarcely 
recognize — a  picture  that  portrayed  him  as  a  con- 
summate boor — a  character  so  utterly  selfish  that  he 
could  barely  contain  himself.  All  his  boasted  cool- 
ness and  indifference  deserted  him.  The  bitterness 
of  his  heart  was  stirred  to  its  depths  and  the  dregs 
were  poisonous. 


XXVIII. 

IT  was  shortly  after  the  occurrence  of  this  spirited 
scene  between  Marion  and  Van  Stump  that  Strum 
sought  during  Mr.  Derringforth's  absence  to  learn 
from  Phil  the  exact  state  of  the  firm's  affairs.  The 
interview  did  not  end  quite  as  he  had  hoped — hardly 
as  Van  Stump  had  hoped.  A  somewhat  lucid  account 
of  the  manner  in  which  it  terminated  only  served  to 
intensify  Van  Stump's  anger.  He  had  been  thwarted 
in  his  first  move — a  move  which  had  for  its  ultimate 
purpose  the  humiliation  of  Marion. 

Van  Stump  had  made  a  careful  survey  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  so  far  as  he  could  discover,  the  ruin  of  Der- 
ringforth  was  the  only  possible  point  of  attack  on  her. 
Her  father  was  very  rich,  and  her  social  position  was 
unquestioned.  She  had  been  exceptionally  discreet, 
and  no  word  of  scandal  had  ever  been  spoken  against 
her. 

"  There  is  but  one  way  to  humble  her,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  and  that  is  to  crush  Derringforth.  And 
after  all,  what  is  the  odds?  He  is  nothing  to  me,  the 
poor  beggar. ' ' 


Van  Stump's  animus  was  aimed  at  Marion,  but 
when  he  learned  that  Derringforth  had  taken  it  upon 
himself  to  thwart  his  purpose  by  unceremoniously 
dumping  Strum  in  a  heap  outside  the  office  door,  then 
it  was  that  his  hatred  for  Derringforth  blazed  out. 

"  I  will  crush  him  into  a  shapeless  mass,"  he  hissed, 
and  the  clinching  of  his  fists  added  realism  to  his 
words. 

His  usual  discretion  deserted  him.  He  came  out 
from  his  hiding  place  and  took  a  hand  personally  in 
the  investigation,  in  a  round  about  way,  of  the  affairs 
of  the  Derringforths.  He  was  too  much  in  earnest  to 
sit  at  home  and  idly  await  the  result  of  Strum's  further 
efforts.  It  would  have  been  well  for  him  had  he  done 
so,  but  of  this  not  now. 

With  the  twenty  thousand  dollar  note  due  to  Strum, 
as  agent  for  Van  Stump,  paid  and  out  of  the  way,  the 
Derringforths  saw  a  glimmer  of  sunlight  streaming  in 
through  a  rift  in  the  clouds.  It  lighted  up  Mr.  Der- 
ringforth's  face  and  would  have  had  a  similar  effect 
wpon  Phil  but  for  other  complications,  an  account  of 
which  has  already  been  given. 

"  There  are  three  weeks  of  smooth  sailing  before  us, 
Phil,"  said  Mr.  Derringforth,  settling  himself  back  in 
his  big  office  chair  with  an  air  of  relief.  "  Three 
weeks — it's  a  good  while,  but  there  is  nothing  that 
will  trouble  us.  If  we  were  only  free  from  that  Shy- 
lock,  but — well,  he  can't  bother  us  until  the  next  note 
falls  due." 

160 


"And  that  is  three  weeks  from  now?"  queried 
Phil. 

"Yes,  and  in  the  mean  time  I  hope  to  make  a 
turn  that  will  give  us  the  money  to  take  it  up  in 
full." 

It  was  Tuesday  that  this  conversation  occurred,  the 
day  after  Phil  had  pitched  Strum  out  of  the  office. 
On  Friday,  just  three  days  later,  the  firm  was  para- 
lyzed by  a  blow  from  a  friendly  quarter.  It  came  in 
the  shape  of  a  peremptory  demand  for  the  immediate 
payment  of  a  large  sum  of  money.  Mr.  Derringforth 
was  stunned  at  what  seemed  to  him  a  cold  blooded, 
high  handed  procedure.  Phil  had  never  seen  his  father 
so  visibly  affected  before.  He  looked  as  if  the  last 
friend  had  deserted  him — as  if  his  confidence  in  hu- 
manity was  gone. 

"  I  have  paid  this  house  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
dollars,  as  you  know,  Phil,"  he  said,  speaking  as  one 
almost  doubting  his  own  senses,  "  and  I  should  as 
soon  expect  you  or  your  mother  to  turn  upon  me  in 
this  way.  I  can't  understand  it,  I  can't  realize  it — 
the  Hayden  National  Iron  Company — a  house  that  I 
would  have  trusted  with  my  very  life." 

"  There  is  something  at  the  bottom  of  this,"  said 
Phil,  scarcely  less  shocked  than  his  father. 

"There   must    be — these    people   have  been   my 

friends.     They  would  not  treat  us  in  this  way.    They 

knew  exactly  how  we  were  pressed  for  money  and  told 

me  to  take  our  own  time  for  paying  them.     '  Your 

161 


credit  is  good  for  any  amount  with  us,'  said  Mr. 
Baldwin  to  me  only  last  week. ' ' 

' '  And  he  is  the  treasurer  ?  ' '  said  Phil. 

"  Yes,  the  treasurer.  There  is  something  wrong 
somewhere,  as  you  say,"  replied  the  father.  "  Some- 
thing wrong,"  he  repeated  to  himself,  looking  as  one 
trying  to  peer  into  an  impenetrable  mystery. 


XXIX. 

THERE  seems  to  be  an  irony  of  fate  that  delights  in 
making  things  turn  out  strangely  different  from  our 
fancies.  Marion  went  to  the  Harburys',  feeling  blue 
and  depressed.  She  expected  a  miserably  stupid  time, 
and  but  for  the  prospect  of  a  yet  more  dismal  evening 
at  home  alone,  would  have  remained  there.  The  party 
was  one  of  the  events  of  the  season  ;  it  was  the  event 
with  Marion. 

She  had  scarcely  entered  the  room  when  a  tall, 
finely  proportioned  man  was  presented  to  her.  He 
was  an  Englishman,  a  cousin  to  Mrs.  Harbury.  Dev- 
onshire— Richard  Devonshire  was  his  name.  He  had 
been  in  America  only  three  days,  but  was  not  slow 
to  discover  the  girl  that  appealed  most  strongly  to 
his  fancy,  and  to  her  he  devoted  himself  almost  exclu- 
sively throughout  the  evening. 

That  girl  was  Marion.  She  had  never  met  just  such 
a  man  before.  He  was  a  fascinating  talker,  a  gratify- 
ing listener,  and  a  gentleman  of  fine  instincts.  Marion 
was  charmed  with  him,  and  was  conscious  of  a  buoy- 
ancy of  spirit  that  was  an  extreme  rebound  from  the 
163 


gloom  of  the  early  evening.  She  had  never  in  all 
her  life  appeared  to  better  advantage.  Her  conver- 
sation was  bright  and  sparkling,  her  manner  imbued 
with  captivating  enthusiasm,  her  beauty  intoxi- 
cating. Devonshire  hung  upon  her  words  with  an 
expression  in  his  eyes  that  was  an  electric  stimulus  to 
her. 

They  walked  and  talked  and  danced  together,  to 
the  envy  of  some,  but  to  the  delight  of  each  other. 
The  conversation  finally  turned  on  England.  Marion 
said  that  she  had  been  considering  the  matter  of  go- 
ing abroad  with  the  beginning  of  Lent.  "  It  all  de- 
pends upon  me,"  she  added,  "as  papa  and  mama 
are  anxious  to  take  the  trip." 

' '  I  wish  I  could  say  something  that  would  persuade 
you  to  go,"  replied  Devonshire.  "  I  shall  return  my- 
self at  about  that  time. ' ' 

"  Shall  you?  "  exclaimed  Marion,  her  eyes  danc- 
ing. 

' '  Yes,  and  if  you  will  go,  and  it  would  be  agree- 
able to  you  and  your  father  and  mother,  I  will 
arrange  to  sail  on  the  same  steamer  with  you." 

"  Nothing  would  give  us  more  pleasure,  I  am  sure," 
answered  Marion.  "  The  thought  of  having  so 
agreeable  a  fellow  passenger  almost  persuades  me," 
she  added,  with  a  look  that  made  the  heart  of  the 
Englishman  beat  faster. 

"  I  think  I  could  give  you  some  pleasure  in  Eng- 
land. At  all  events  I  should  esteem  it  a  favor  to  be 
164 


allowed  to  do  anything  in  my  power  for  your  enjoy- 
ment." 

"You  are  very,  very  kind.  I  wish  I  could  say 
now  that  I  shall  go,  but  I  will  let  you  know  defi- 
nitely within  a  day  or  two.  I  really  cannot  decide 
tonight. ' ' 


XXX. 

IT  was  with  an  aching  heart  that  Derringforth 
ascended  the  brown  stone  steps  of  the  Kingsleys'. 
His  venture  into  Wall  Street,  instead  of  helping  him, 
had  only  added  to  his  anxiety.  It  had  already  re- 
sulted in  a  small  loss  and  the  end  was  not  yet.  But 
worse  than  this — a  thousand  times  worse,  was  the 
crisis  in  the  firm's  affairs. 

He  would  gladly  give  ten  years  of  his  life,  it  seemed 
to  him,  for  a  little  more  time,  but  he  had  told 
Marion  that  he  was  free  for  that  evening  and  knew 
that  she  would  expect  him.  There  was  no  reasonable 
and  satisfactory  excuse  to  offer  her  for  further  delay. 
No,  there  was  no  hope,  he  must  go  to  her  and  ask 
that  the  engagement  be  postponed  or  the  idea  aban- 
doned forever.  The  thought  was  torture  to  him, 
but  there  was  no  other  way. 

He  entered  the  drawing  room,  feeling  like  one 
about  to  pass  sentence  upon  himself.  Marion  came 
down  a  minute  later  and  greeted  him  in  the  old  time, 
cordial  way. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Phil,"  she  said. 
1 66 


"  And  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  replied  Derringforth, 
taking  both  her  hands  in  his.  "I  am  always  glad  to 
see  you,  little  girl."  There  was  feeling  in  the  words 
as  he  spoke  them,  though  he  tried  to  hide  the  gloom 
of  his  soul,  and  be  the  light  hearted  boy  of  a  year  be- 
fore. 

Marion  led  the  way  to  the  sofa.  "I  was  afraid 
you  no  longer  cared  to  see  me  since  you  couldn't 
come  last  evening,"  she  answered. 

"But  it  was  impossible  forme  to  come,"  he  re- 
plied. The  words  were  out  before  he  realized  that 
he  was  uttering  a  falsehood.  The  sound  of  the  last 
syllable  had  not  died  away  when  his  conscience 
thrust  a  picture  before  his  eyes.  It  was  a  distorted 
likeness  of  himself  with  the  word  "liar"  written 
obliquely  across  it.  He  winced  and  shifted  his  posi- 
tion, moving  cautiously  a  few  inches  further  away 
from  Marion.  She  made  no  reply  for  an  instant. 
The  silence  gave  Derringforth  time  to  feel  a  tremor 
of  contempt  for  himself. 

Meantime  Marion  was  doing  a  little  thinking  on 
her  own  account.  The  thought  flashed  through  her 
mind  that  it  was  only  the  night  before  last  when  she 
occupied  precisely  the  same  position  on  that  same 
sofa,  and  that  Burton  Edwards  then  sat  where  Phil 
now  sat. 

Derringforth  was  wrought  up  to  a  highly  sensitive 
state.  Nothing  escaped  him.  The  flush  of  her  face 
and  the  sudden  confusion  of  her  manner  impressed 
167 


themselves  upon  him  with  photographic  accuracy. 
He  interpreted  these  outward  signs  as  evidence  of 
contempt  for  him,  fancying  that  she  knew  he  had 
said  what  was  not  true.  The  thought  of  deliberately 
lying  to  Marion  was  revolting  to  his  sense  of  manli- 
ness. 

"It  is  the  devil  that  is  in  me  that  spoke  those 
false  words,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  never  intended 
to  say  anything  of  the  sort.  It  was  not  impossible 
for  me  to  call."  He  was  upon  the  point  of  confess- 
ing when  Marion  said  : 

"I  was  bitterly  disappointed."  She  raised  her 
eyes.  They  met  his,  and  a  blush  of  self  condemna- 
tion leaped  to  his  face. 

"I  was  right,"  cried  Marion  to  herself,  stung 
by  the  pang  of  jealousy.  "I  was  right,"  she  re- 
peated; "there  is  something  he  is  keeping  from 
me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  answered  Derringforth,  strug- 
gling to  appear  natural.  "I  wanted  to  come  more 
than  you  can  realize,  but  you  know  you  asked  for  a 
few  days'  delay,  and  so  I  went  into  a  little  business 
venture  with  a  friend." 

Derringforth  paused  for  an  instant,  and  Marion, 
supposing  he  had  finished,  said  : 

"  I  didn't  think  you  would  let  business  keep  you 
from  coming  to  see  me.  Would  it  have  kept  you  a 
year  ago,  I  wonder  ?  ' ' 

There  was  something  in  the  way  this  was  said  that 
168 


sent  a  chill  through  Derringforth.  Marion  had  tried 
to  speak  kindly.  It  was  that  pang  of  jealousy  that 
keyed  her  vocal  cords  to  harsher  tones.  He  had  in- 
tended to  explain  further  about  the  business  venture, 
and  also  confess  the  falsehood  that  was  rankling  in  his 
soul.  But  he  couldn't  quite  bring  himself  to  do  this 
now.  There  was  an  involuntary  tightening  about  the 
cords  of  his  heart.  He  answered  guardedly,  saying  : 

"  I  cannot  always  shape  things  quite  to  my  liking. 
I  have  already  said  that  I  wanted  to  spend  the  even- 
ing with  you,  and  I  waited  till  towards  night  to  see 
if  I  could  not  do  so.  In  asking  if  I  should  have  let 
business  keep  me  from  you  a  year  ago  you  imply 
a  doubt  of  my  loyalty. ' ' 

The  word  "loyalty"  made  Marion  wince.  Her 
own  heart  was  her  accuser — not  Derringforth.  "  I 
did  not  really  mean  that,"  she  said  nervously. 
"  I  felt  hurt  and  disappointed,  and  you  gave  no 
reason  for  not  coming — you  give  none  now — not 
quite  enough,  Phil,  to  satisfy  a  girl's  heart.  I  didn't 
feel  a  bit  like  going  out,  and  fancied  that  we  could 
have  such  a  quiet,  good  time  at  home. ' ' 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  answered  Derringforth,  melting 
again  into  sunnier  mood.  "I  am  very  sorry,  but 
hope  my  not  coming  did  not  spoil  your  evening." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  went  to  the  Harbury  reception  and  had 
a  most  delightful  time." 

"I  am  glad,"  returned  Derringforth.  "As  it 
turned  out,  then,"  he  went  on  a  trifle  stiffly,  "I  hope 
169 


you  are  not  sorry  I  couldn't  come — you  would  have 
missed  a  good  time,  and  now  you  have  me  with  you 
tonight." 

Derringforth  paused  for  an  answer.  Marion  hesi- 
tated. She  would  not  utter  a  falsehood,  and  she  could 
not  well  say  how  glad  she  was  that  she  went  to  the 
party — could  not  bring  herself  to  tell  Phil  of  Devon- 
shire and  the  delightful  hours  she  had  spent  with  him. 

It  was  a  trying  moment  for  Marion.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  carpet.  Derringforth's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her.  He  was  waiting.  The  flush  on  her  cheek 
and  the  nervous  fumbling  with  her  fan  answered  his 
question.  It  could  have  been  no  plainer  if  put  into 
words. 

The  answer  stung  his  pride  and  wounded  him-  al- 
most to  the  death. 

The  blaze  of  the  big  lamp  in  the  corner  had  crawled 
up  to  a  point  that  terminated  in  a  shaft  of  smoke. 
Derringforth  saw  it  streaming  high  towards  the  ceiling 
as  he  raised  his  head  with  a  stifled  groan,  searching  for 
something  to  break  the  painful  silence. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  rising  suddenly  and  starting 
to  cross  the  room. 

Marion  looked  up  and  saw  the  smoke  streaming  from 
the  chimney. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  and  in  an  instant  was  by 
Derringforth's  side. 

"It's  all  right  now,"  he  said,  as  he  reduced  the 
blaze  beyond  the  possibility  of  further  trouble. 
170 


"I  wonder  I  didn't  see  it,"  remarked  Marion,  at 
the  same  time  thanking  heaven  secretly  for  the  relief 
this  trifling  incident  brought  her. 

"  You  were  not  looking  in  the  right  direction,"  re- 
plied Derringforth.  "  I  am  the  one  that  should  have 
seen  it  before." 

He  turned  towards  her  and  looked  down  into  her 
eyes.  His  expression  startled  her,  it  was  so  unlike  the 
Phil  of  the  old  days.  He  took  a  piece  of  bric-a-brac 
from  the  mantel  with  the  remark,  "  This  is  something 
new,  is  it  not  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marion,  "  and  it  is  a  very  rare 
specimen." 

She  eagerly  seized  the  opportunity  to  turn  the  con- 
versation from  the  theme  that  had  so  embarrassed  her. 

"Very  antique,  strikes  me,"  rejoined  Derringforth, 
apparently  studying  it  with  much  interest. 

"  Yes,  very  antique.  A  friend  of  papa's  brought  it 
from  Europe  only  last  week." 

"Europe  is  full  of  interesting  things,"  returned 
Derringforth.  "  I  feel  that  I  should  like  to  go  abroad 
and  remain  for  an  entire  year,  well  away  from  business 
and  business  annoyances. ' ' 

This  remark  was  made  with  the  view  of  leading  up 
to  his  financial  troubles. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  go  with  us,"  said  Marion, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  enthusiasm  and,  it  may  be 
said  truthfully,  with  a  thrill  of  delight  even  at  the 
thought. 

171 


"  Are  you  going?"  asked  Derringforth,  looking 
up  quickly. 

"  Mama  has  been  urging  the  matter." 

The  look  that  flashed  into  his  eyes  made  her  wish 
that  she  had  been  more  cautious. 

"  When  shall  you  sail?  "  he  asked,  trying  to  appear 
indifferent. 

"  We  may  not  sail  at  all.  It  is  not  settled  yet," 
answered  Marion,  more  diplomatically.  His  expres- 
sion became  grave  and,  Marion  thought,  a  trifle  stern. 
He  stood  erect,  tall,  and  dignified.  All  the  boyish 
lines  of  his  face,  it  seemed  to  her,  had  yielded  to  the 
strength  of  mature  manhood. 

"  But  when  your  mother  urges  anything  isn't  it  as 
good  as  settled  ?  "  he  said. 

He  had  tried  to  disguise  his  feelings,  but  there  was 
a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  words  that  cut. 

"  Mama  doesn't  do  all  the  thinking  for  the  family. 
Your  remark  is  hardly  complimentary, ' '  returned  Ma- 
rion with  considerable  spirit. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  uncomplimen- 
tary," he  said,  returning  with  her  to  the  sofa.  "But 
I  have  had  good  reason,  as  you  know — we  have  had 
good  reason  to  recognize  the  force  of  your  mother's 
will." 

An  expression  of  pain  came  into  Marion's  face.  "  I 
am  sure  mama  has  never  urged  anything  with  me  that 
she  did  not  believe  best  for  me.  No  one  knows  this 
better  than  you,  Phil." 

172 


"  Yes,  that  is  true,  but  one  sometimes  errs  in  judg- 
ment. It  was  just  a  year  ago,  little  girl,  that  you  and 
I  yielded  to  your  mother's  will.  You  can  tell  better 
than  I  whether  she  or  we  were  right. ' ' 

Marion  hesitated,  thinking  what  answer  to  make. 
She  tapped  her  folded  fan  lightly  against  her  forehead 
as  if  to  quicken  thought.  "  Why  do  you  think  I  can 
tell  better  than  you  ?  "  she  asked,  raising  her  eyes  to 
his  in  ingenuous  query. 

It  was  his  turn  to  hesitate  now,  but  at  the  end  of 
an  instant  he  answered  :  "  Because  I  have  never  had 
but  one  opinion — yours  may  have  changed." 

"  In  all  the  years  you  have  known  me,  Phil,  you 
have  never  found  me  so  very  changeable,  have 
you  ?  ' ' 

The  expression  of  her  eyes  and  the  appealing  tones 
of  her  voice  made  it  plain  to  Derringforth  that  his 
words  had  hurt,  and  they  had.  It  was  no  easy  matter 
for  her  to  keep  back  the  tears.  He  felt  that  he  would 
like  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  like  a  child  cry  with 
her  and  for  a  time  forget  the  past — forget  everything 
but  her. 

"  No,  I  have  not,"  he  said  softly — almost  ten- 
derly. "  Forgive  me  for  the  suggestion,"  and  then 
he  killed  the  effect  by  an  ill  timed  effort  to  justify 
himself,  adding,  "  but  you  know  you  have  seen  so 
much  of  life  during  the  year — have  had  so  many  good 
times — have  met  so  many  men." 

Marion  looked  up  quickly  with  flushed  face.     The 


reference  to  the  good  times  she  had  had  and  the  men 
she  had  met  startled  her.  Derringforth  saw  the  color 
in  her  cheeks  and  misinterpreted  its  meaning,  fancy- 
ing that  he  had  again  offended  her.  But  not  knowing 
just  how  to  help  matters  he  said  nothing,  trusting  to 
luck  for  an  improvement  in  the  situation. 

A  little  silence  and  a  good  deal  of  thought  followed. 
Marion  was  the  first  to  speak.  She  had  regained  her 
composure,  but  the  sting  of  her  conscience  was  still 
felt,  and  the  fear  that  perhaps  he  knew  more  of  her 
flirtations  than  he  had  admitted  prompted  caution. 

"  You  have  been  quite  as  free  to  meet  girls  as  I 
have  men,"  she  said,  bringing  him  forward  as  the 
subject  of  discussion,  "  and  since  they  have  not  influ- 
enced your  opinion,  why  should  the  acquaintances  I 
have  made  influence  mine  ?  ' ' 

"But  I  have  met  scarcely  any  one,"  replied  Der- 
ringforth, not  altogether  sure  that  luck  had  served 
him  especially  well.  At  all  events  this  was  a  turn  to 
the  conversation  that  he  had  not  expected. 

"  You  have  never  told  me  anything  about  the  girls 
you  have  met,"  pursued  Marion,  in  justification  of 
her  own  omission  to  inform  Derringforth  of  the  de- 
licious little  flirtations  she  had  had. 

' '  There  has  been  nothing  worth  the  telling. ' ' 

"  Oh,  Phil,"  she  said,  with  a  captivating  little  gest- 
ure that  should  have  made  him  own  up  to  anything, 
true  or  false. 

"  There  has  not,"  he  repeated,  unmoved. 


"  Don't  blush  so  about  it  or  I  shall  really  believe 
there  is  something  that  you  don't  want  me  to  know." 
She  was  far  more  serious  than  her  manner  indicated. 
Derringforth  was  angry  at  himself,  but  the  color  grew 
deeper. 

Marion  smiled.  It  was  that  sort  of  smile  that  irri- 
tated him.  Derringforth  shifted  his  position  and  ap- 
peared ill  at  ease,  all  of  which  had  a  tendency  to  con- 
firm Marion's  suspicions.  It  fed  the  slight  feeling  of 
jealousy  already  awakened. 

"  It  seems  to  me  we  are  drifting  away  from  the 
subject, ' '  remarked  Derringforth,  in  the  effort  to  free 
himself. 

1 '  Yes,  drifting  to  a  rather  more  interesting  sub- 
ject," answered  Marion. 

"  Not  to  me." 

"  But  to- me." 

"  Suppose  we  take  them  up  in  order,  then,  and  re- 
turn to  the  one  with  which  we  began  ?  I  believe  we 
were  trying  to  determine  whether  the  year  that  has 
just  closed  has  proved  your  mother's  judgment  to  be 
right  or  wrong. ' ' 

"  Yes,  but  can  we  be  sure  either  the  one  way  or  the 
other  ?  ' ' 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  without  further  knowledge  of 
the  future  I  can't  see  that  we  can  say  positively  that 
mama  was  wrong  or  that  we  were  right.  I  am  sure 
you  will  admit  this." 


"I  don't  know  that  I  shall,"  answered  Derring- 
forth,  with  the  growing  suspicion  that  Marion  was 
parrying  with  him  and  that  her  views  had  changed 
a  good  deal  more  than  she  was  willing  to  admit.  The 
thought  increased  his  reserve. 

"  Then  if  we  can't  agree,  what  is  the  object  of  dis- 
cussing the  question,  and  what  good  can  come  of  it, 
since  we  can't  recall  the  past  ?  " 

' '  The  errors  of  the  past  are  guides  to  the  future, ' ' 
returned  Derringforth  sententiously. 

"  Very  true." 

"  Then  why  is  there  nothing  to  be  gained  by  the 
discussion  ? ' ' 

"  Because  we  cannot,  it  seems  to  me,  settle  the 
question  as  to  who  was  in  the  wrong. ' ' 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  want  to  settle  it,"  said  Der- 
ringforth coldly. 

The  words  left  a  bitter  sting.  They  were  nearer 
the  truth  than  she  was  willing  to  acknowledge  to  her- 
self, even.  But  it  was  the  way  they  were  spoken  that 
hurt  most.  Her  face  flushed.  Derringforth  watched 
her  expression  with  keen  eyes.  The  heightened  col- 
or, the  hesitation,  the  evident  disquietude,  all  tended 
to  confirm  him  in  his  suspicion  that  Marion  had  wa- 
vered in  her  steadfastness. 

He  had  come  to  her  with  the  intention  of  telling 
her  everything  about  his  troubles — of  telling  her  of 
his  struggles  to  free  himself  from  the  grasp  of  a  Shy- 
lock — of  telling  her  of  the  torture  he  had  suffered  in 
176 


the  thought  that  perhaps  Burton  Edwards  was  winning 
her  love,  and  of  finally  saying  to  her  that  it  was  he 
who  must  now  ask  that  the  engagement  be  postponed, 
or  perhaps  abandoned  forever.  He  had  come  with  the 
belief  that  she  would  be  true  to  her  purpose  of  a  year 
before,  but  the  conversation  thus  far  had  led  him  to 
suspect  that  he  was  mistaken.  He  turned  so  that  he 
could  place  his  arm  upon  the  back  of  the  sofa.  He 
put  his  hand  to  his  throbbing  temples.  The  position 
brought  his  face  directly  towards  Marion's.  Neither 
spoke  for  a  time.  In  the  soft  light,  and  in  a  becoming 
evening  gown,  so  fashioned  that  it  revealed  a  glimpse 
of  a  white,  round  neck,  she  was  very  pretty.  Der- 
ringforth  thought  of  the  past  and  of  the  happiness  they 
had  had  together  ;  of  the  happy  life  they  had  planned  to 
live  together.  She  was  handsomer  now,  as  he  saw  her, 
than  ever  before.  He  had  never  craved  her  love  so 
much  as  at  this  instant.  To  give  her  up — to  think  of 
her  as  the  wife  of  another — no,  no,  he  could  not  do 
this ;  the  thought  was  maddening.  He  was  miserably 
unhappy. 

Marion  was  equally  unhappy.  The  conversation 
had  drifted  in  a  way  that  neither  expected — that 
neither  desired.  The  love  of  their  hearts  had  been 
forced  back  into  deep  recesses  where  its  light  could 
not  be  reflected  in  the  eye  ;  where  its  sweetness  could 
not  add  music  to  the  voice. 

Marion,  too,  thought  of  the  past — of  the  simple 
days  of  childhood — of  Phil  as  he  was  then — as  he  had 


been  all  their  lives.  Her  breast  heaved  with  a  sup- 
pressed sigh  and  she  raised  her  face  to  his.  The  soft, 
appealing  look  in  her  eyes  penetrated  almost  beyond 
the  reserve  that  incased  his  true  nature.  Oh,  that  he 
had  had  the  breadth  and  sweetness  of  soul  to  lift  him- 
self above  himself,  and,  forgetting  miserable  pride,  had 
reached  out  his  hands  to  her.  She  would  have  taken 
them  eagerly  in  the  spirit  in  which  they  were  given, 
responding  with  all  the  wealth  of  her  heart — with  all 
the  depth  of  her  love.  One  word  from  him  would 
have  been  enough,  and  all  the  world  in  her  eyes 
would  have  been  as  nothing  compared  with  him. 
One  word  from  her  would  have  caused  him  to  forget 
everything  in  life  but  her — would  have  filled  his  soul 
with  happiness  sweeter  and  purer  and  deeper  than  all 
else  of  the  treasures  of  earth.  God  must  have  turned 
away  sorrowing  that  that  word  was  not  spoken. 

Once  or  twice  it  hovered  on  Derringforth's  lips ; 
once  or  twice  it  hovered  on  Marion's  lips.  If  each 
could  have  seen  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  other  their 
two  lives  would  have  blended  into  one.  There  would 
have  been  mutual  confidence — mutual  confidings,  and 
love  would  have  softened  and  sweetened  and  made 
radiant  the  soul  of  each. 

But  their  better  impulses  were  forced  back,  and  two 
hearts  moaned  piteously. 

"  If  your  mother  was  right  a  year  ago,"  said 
Derringforth,  finally  breaking  the  silence,  "  why 
shouldn't  she  wish  the  same  policy  to  prevail  for 
178 


another  year  and  perhaps  yet  another,  and  maybe  still 
another?" 

"Mama  thinks  she  was  right,"  answered  Marion 
softly. 

"  That  makes  the  matter  clearer,"  replied.  Derring- 
forth.  His  voice  was  not  quite  steady,  though  he 
was  steeling  himself  against  all  emotion. 

The  situation  for  both  Derringforth  and  Marion 
was  a  complicated  one.  Had  he  been  in  a  position 
to  become  engaged  he  would  have  reached  the  subject 
in  a  direct  way.  He  had  come  with  the  intention  of 
telling  in  a  straightforward  manner  of  his  almost 
hopeless  financial  condition,  but  the  unfortunate  open- 
ing of  the  conversation  chilled  him.  He  was  in  a 
highly  sensitive  state,  due  to  the  strain  and  anxiety 
that  had  reduced  him  almost  to  the  verge  of  nervous 
prostration,  and  readily  became  secretive,  thinking 
it  better  to  draw  Marion  out  before  opening  his  heart 
to  her. 

Marion,  on  the  other  hand,  was  at  a  disadvantage 
from  the  start.  She  knew  nothing  of  his  misfortunes, 
and  felt  hurt,  as  a  proud  spirited  girl  should,  at  his 
seeming  indifference.  He  had  not  been  himself  for 
months.  She  had  seen  very  little  of  him,  and  they 
had  drifted  further  and  further  apart  as  the  weeks 
went  by.  She  blamed  him,  and  had  a  right  to  blame 
him,  not  knowing  the  struggle  he  was  undergoing. 
Had  he  confided  in  her  he  would  have  drawn  her 
towards  him  and  she  would  have  drawn  him  towards 
179 


her.  There  would  have  been  mutual  confidence,  and 
the  love  that  began  away  back  in  childhood  would 
have  continued  to  grow  deeper  and  fuller  and  riper. 
The  passion  of  the  human  heart  cannot  live  on  air ; 
will  not  thrive  on  memory. 

Marion  was  scarcely  less  sensitive  than  Derring- 
forth,  and  detecting  his  diplomatic  tactics,  felt  that 
his  treatment  was  cold  and  cruel.  But  she  had  too 
much  pride  to  let  him  know  her  thoughts,  and  follow- 
ing his  example  became  equally  diplomatic — equal- 
ly cold  and  indifferent.  They  were  at  cross  pur- 
poses. Neither  understood  the  other  ;  each  blamed 
the  other. 

One  thing  was  plain  to  Marion,  and  that  was  Der- 
ringforth's  desire  to  find  out,  without  committing 
himself,  her  feeling  regarding  the  engagement.  This 
was  not  manly,  not  generous,  not  right.  It  annoyed 
her,  and  she  determined  that  he  should  never  know 
without  asking  her. 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  could  not  ask  her  to  engage 
herself  to  him,  situated  as  he  was ;  and  if  he  were  to 
confess  his  inability  to  assume  such  responsibilities  he 
fancied  he  would  never  know  her  mind  regarding  the 
matter.  With  the  almost  positive  knowledge  that 
her  mother  would  wish  her  to  continue  free,  and  with 
the  belief,  resting  largely,  to  be  sure,  on  an  interpre- 
tation of  misleading  acts  and  utterances,  that  she  her- 
self was  anxious  to  avoid  the  engagement,  he  vowed 
that  he  would  say  nothing  of  his  own  affairs. 
1 80 


''I  have  kept  faith,"  he  reflected,  "  and  with  no 
prospect  of  an  engagement  why  should  I  humiliate 
myself  before  her  ?  It  was  my  place  to  tell  her  every- 
thing, as  I  intended  to,  had  she  proved  herself  worthy 
of  my  confidence." 

A  half  hour  later  Derringforth  went  out  into  the 
night.  The  parting  was  formal — not  warm,  not  frigid, 
but  excessively  polite. 


XXXI. 

THE  click  of  the  door  closing  behind  Derringforth 
brought  him  to  a  realizing  sense  of  his  position.  He 
was  not  only  shut  out  from  Marion's  presence,  but 
with  equal  truth,  it  seemed  to  him,  shut  out  from  her 
heart.  He  had  no  sooner  reached  the  street  than  he 
stopped  and  looked  back,  in  the  vain  hope  that  he 
might  yet  see  her  face.  He  was  upon  the  point  of 
turning  back  with  the  impulse  to  implore  her  for- 
giveness— to  beg  for  the  assurance  of  her  love — when 
the  door  was  thrown  open.  It  was  not  Marion,  come 
to  recall  him,  but  a  servant,  who  an  instant  later 
closed  the  heavy  outer  doors.  Derringforth  gazed 
longingly  at  the  house.  His  head  drooped ;  his 
shoulders  sagged. 

Marion  hurried  to  her  own  room,  and  in  the  dark- 
ness went  quickly  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  with 
the  hope  that  she  might  yet  see  Derringforth.  She 
looked  down  the  street  to  a  point  where  she  imagined 
he  would  be,  but  saw  no  one.  She  turned  to  the 
other  side  of  the  bay  window  and  looked  in  the  op- 
posite direction,  but  was  not  rewarded  with  the  sight 
182 


of  him  she  sought.  She  returned  to  her  original 
position  and  again  peered  into  the  gray,  misty  dark- 
ness. Her  heart  cried  out  with  disappointment  and 
bitter  anguish.  She  threw  herself  upon  a  hassock 
at  the  base  of  the  window,  and  with  her  head  resting 
upon  her  hand  still  looked  far  down  the  street. 

A  heavy  mist,  that  was  almost  rain,  made  the  at- 
mosphere wet  and  cold.  Marion  shuddered,  chilled 
by  the  sight  and  by  a  sense  of  loneliness  so  keen  that 
the  tears  stole  down  her  white  cheeks.  She  wiped 
them  away  with  her  handkerchief,  and  in  doing  this 
cast  her  eyes  downward. 

At  that  instant  Derringforth  threw  up  his  hands  in 
a  pathetic  gesture  that  seemed  to  say,  "It  is  all  over — 
there  is  no  longer  any  hope ; ' '  and  he  turned  away, 
bent  forward  with  a  burden  of  sorrow  that  was  crush- 
ing out  all  the  spirit  of  his  young  life. 

Marion  was  stunned — dumb,  helpless  for  an  instant, 
and  then  she  raised  the  window  and  called  to  the  man 
she  loved  to  come  back  to  her.  But  he  heard  her 
not. 

Marion  sank  again  upon  the  hassock  and  gave  way 
to  deep,  bitter,  cruel  sobbing. 

The  angel  of  love  had  again  taken  the  hands  of 
these  two  and  stretched  them  forth  till  they  almost 
touched.  But  the  chasm  was  not  quite  spanned — 
the  currents  of  love  not  reunited,  and  each  turned 
away,  hopeless. 


XXXII. 

EARLY  the  following  morning  Marion  received  a 
note  from  Richard  Devonshire,  asking  if  he  might 
not  call  upon  her  during  the  forenoon.  It  was  a 
straightforward  request,  written  in  a  manly,  clear  cut 
hand. 

"I  can't  see  him,"  she  exclaimed,  thrusting  the 
note  away  from  her.  "  I  must  not  see  him  again,  I 
must  not." 

She  leaned  languidly  upon  the  arm  of  her  chair 
and  pondered.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  carpet 
in  a  vacant  stare.  The  maid's  presence  was  forgot- 
ten. But  the  latter  very  soon  recalled  her  from  her 
reverie,  saying,  "  The  boy  is  waiting  for  an  answer, 
Miss  Marion." 

"  Tell  him  there  is  no  answer,' '  said  Marion,  almost 
peevishly. 

The  maid  closed  the  door  and  started  to  do  her 
bidding. 

Marion  hurried  to  the  stairs  and  called  her  back 
with  the  remark  that  she  must  say  something.     She 
went  to  her  desk  and  wrote : 
184 


MY  DEAR  MR.  DEVONSHIRE  : — I  am  very  sorry,  but 
it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  see  you  this  forenoon, 
and  unfortunately  every  hour  of  the  day  and  evening 
is  engaged.  You  are  very  kind  to  suggest  calling. 
I  wish  it  were  so  that  I  could  receive  you,  but 

Here  Marion  paused.  Her  penholder  found  its 
way  to  her  mouth,  and  she  bit  it  very  hard  with  her 
pretty  white  teeth  in  the  effort  to  solve  the  problem. 
She  got  up,  went  to  the  table,  picked  up  Devonshire's 
letter  and  returned  with  it  to  her  writing  desk.  She 
read  it  again. 

"  It's  really  very  nice  of  him  to  want  to  see  me," 
she  reflected.  "He  is  such  a  charming  man,  and  so 
handsome.  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  offend  him,  and 
I  am  afraid  he  would  be  offended  if  I  should  refuse 
to  se'e  him.  But  I  don't  want  to  see  him — I  can't 
see  him,  and  yet — really  I  ought  to,  I  suppose.  Mama 
would  wish  me  to,  I  am  sure." 

She  turned  her  head  and  saw  the  maid  staring  at 
her  in  dumb  surprise.  She  felt  a  tremor  of  nervous- 
ness, and  wished  the  girl  would  leave  her.  She  took 
up  the  unfinished  note  and  tore  it  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  a  rosy  tint  spreading  over  her  face.  Then 
she  began  a  second  letter. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  DEVONSHIRE  : — I  am  very  glad  that 
you  have  not  forgotten  me. 

She  held  up  the  paper  and  read  thus  much,  and 
then  did  some  more  thinking.      "  I  am  glad,"   she 
185 


said  to  herself,  "  I  am  glad  that  he  hasn't  forgotten 
me.  No  girl  likes  to  be  forgotten  by  a  nice  man  the 
minute  she  is  out  of  his  sight.  I  wonder  what  he 
wants.  I  wonder — but  I  shall  never  know  if  I  refuse 
to  see  him,  and  would  it  be  treating  him  right  to  do 
so?  It  can  do  no  harm  to  see  him.  I  don't  want 
him  to  call.  I  wished  he  had  not  asked  me  to  let 
him  call ;  but  now  that  he  has  done  so,  I  don't  like 
to  offend  him,  and  Mrs.  Harbury — she  too  might 
be  offended." 

The  note  was  finally  finished,  and  an  hour  later  Mr. 
Richard  Devonshire  was  in  Marion's  presence. 


XXXIII. 

DERRINGFORTH  turned  away  from  before  Marion's 
home  in  despair.  He  had  stood  there  for  hours,  it 
seemed  to  him,  but  minutes  were  hours  at  that  bitter 
moment.  The  unseemly  haste  in  closing  the  outer 
doors  and  turning  off  the  lights  as  soon  as  he  was  out 
of  the  house,  sent  a  cold  shudder  through  him.  It 
was  not  late.  The  neighboring  residences  were  still 
cheerful  and  bright  with  illumination.  Between 
them  stood  the  Kingsley  home,  somber  and  gloomy. 

Derringforth  turned  his  eyes  towards  Marion's 
room,  hoping,  even  yet,  that  a  light  would  appear  in 
her  window  for  him — that  he  might  see  her  face,  or 
in  some  way  be  assured  that  she  still  thought  of  him 
— still  loved  him.  But  the  longing  of  his  heart  was 
not  satisfied.  All  was  darkness. 

Life  had  never  been  so  black  and  bleak  and  dreary 
as  at  this  instant.  The  foundations  that  he  had  built 
upon  had  crumbled  and  tottered  before  his  eyes. 
That  hope  which  had  been  his  life — which  had  given 
to  it  sweetness  and  inspiration  and  enthusiasm — was 
dead. 

187 


He  walked  on  and  on  in  the  cold,  wet  night,  suf- 
fering as  only  a  sensitive,  sincere  nature  can  suffer. 
The  pain  was  so  keen  that  he  could  scarcely  bear  it ; 
death  would  be  a  welcome  relief. 

"  What  is  there  left  to  me?  "  he  cried.  "With 
Marion  there  was  everything ;  without  her  there  is 
nothing." 

He  had  wandered  far  over  towards  the  East  River, 
and  was  walking  through  a  gruesome  part  of  the  town. 
He  had  turned  up  one  street  and  down  another  with 
no  definite  purpose,  with  no  care  for  his  whereabouts, 
when  suddenly  he  was  awakened  from  his  reverie  by 
the  discovery  that  he  was  being  followed.  His  pur- 
suer was  almost  upon  him  when  Derringforth  came  to 
a  realizing  sense  of  his  danger,  and  in  a  flash  all  the 
unhealthy  desire  for  death  vanished  from  his  mind. 
The  instinct  of  self  preservation  sprang  to  the  front 
with  as  keen  a  desire  for  life  as  Derringforth  had  ever 
known.  Marion  and  all  his  troubles  were  instantly 
forgotten,  and  his  whole  mind  was  alert  for  some  way 
to  escape  the  peril  which  threatened  him. 

He  quickened  his  pace  gradually.  By  this  means 
he  widened  the  gap  between  himself  and  his  pursuer. 
But  within  another  minute  he  was  made  aware  of 
greater  danger.  A  low  whistle  sounded  from  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  way  and  a  little  in  advance  of  him. 
Instantly  the  man  behind  made  a  dash  forward,  while 
another  ran  across  the  street  to  cut  off  escape.  The 
two  were  closing  in  upon  Derringforth. 
1 88 


It  was  a  critical  moment.  To  turn  back  would 
land  him  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  To  go  forward 
would  bring  about  a  similar  result.  Derringforth 
thought  quickly.  The  man  in  front,  club  in  hand, 
was  almost  upon  him.  Derringforth  sprang  for  him 
and  forced  the  fight.  In  a  flash  the  club  had  been 
struck  from  his  hand  by  Derringforth's  heavy  cane, 
and  a  quick  blow  across  the  head  sent  him  reeling  to 
the  ground  with  a  cry  that  pierced  the  darkness  and 
awakened  a  slumbering  policeman  on  the  corner  be- 
low. The  shriek  from  his  confederate  terrified  the 
other  assailant,  and  instead  of  bringing  his  sandbag 
down  upon  Derringforth  he  turned  and  ran  for  his 
life. 

Derringforth  pursued  him  with  the  speed  of  a 
sprinter,  and  had  almost  run  him  to  earth,  when  the 
awakened  policeman  joined  in  the  chase  and  captured 
him.  Derringforth  explained  the  situation,  and  with 
the  officer  hurried  back  to  where  the  other  man  had 
fallen.  He  lay  there  still,  half  stunned  by  the  heavy 
blow  he  had  received.  The  policeman  lifted  him  to 
his  feet,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Derringforth's  assailants 
were  on  the  way  to  the  station  house. 

It  was  past  midnight.  The  heavy  mist  had  de- 
veloped into  rain.  The  air  was  chilly  and  penetrat- 
ing, but  Derringforth  did  not  feel  it.  The  incident 
with  the  footpads  had  sent  the  warm,  young  blood 
bounding  through  his  veins.  A  healthy  glow  was 
upon  his  face.  His  shoulders  had  regained  their 
189 


usual  position.  He  walked  erect  as  he  made  his  way 
homeward.  There  was  a  decision  and  swing  in  his 
movement  that  suggested  strength  and  power — sug- 
gested the  man  in  his  own  consciousness  and  in  fact. 

The  contrast  with  the  Derringforth  of  half  an  hour 
before  was  marvelous.  Then  he  was  wandering  aim- 
lessly, he  knew  not  and  cared  not  whither.  His 
shoulders  were  bent  forward,  his  head  drooped,  his 
step  was  slow  and  uncertain.  He  had  reached  that 
degree  of  despair  when  death  began  to  appeal  to  him 
as  the  only  source  of  deliverance  from  a  misery  that 
it  seemed  to  him  he  could  never  endure.  The 
thought  once  gaining  access  to  his  mind,  it  began 
to  possess  him,  and  in  a  cold,  unnatural,  unhealthy 
sense  comfort  him. 

There  is  a  strange  inclination  in  human  nature  to 
make  a  luxury  of  misery — to  dwell  upon  it  and  paint 
it,  in  morbid  fancy,  in  its  most  harrowing,  most 
direful,  most  dreadful  colors — in  its  most  dramatic 
and  disheartening  and  gruesome  aspects.  This  is 
especially  true  of  women,  but  men  are  not  free  from 
it ;  Derringforth  was  not  free  from  it. 

It  is  a  novel  experience  to  be  suddenly  confronted 
with  death  just  when  one  is  yearning  for  it.  It  rare- 
ly makes  its  appearance  at  such  a  time.  The  dif- 
ference between  the  real  thing  and  the  mawkish  fancy 
of  a  disordered  mind  is  so  great  that  one  should  be 
excused  if,  in  unseemly  haste,  he  abandons  his  desire 
to  pass  beyond  into  the  unknown. 
190 


We  excuse  Derringforth  and  rejoice  that  his  life 
was  threatened  by  these  two  murderous  scoundrels. 
Nothing  could  have  brought  him  to  his  senses  more 
effectually — nothing  could  have  given  him  a  fuller 
realization  of  his  folly. 

He  shuddered  at  the  possibility  of  what  might 
have  happened  but  for  this  incident.  The  thought 
of  his  father,  struggling  along  alone  under  a  crushing 
load,  and  the  picture  of  his  mother,  pale  and  broken 
hearted,  racked  his  soul  with  deepest  emotion.  It 
gave  him  a  conception  of  his  own  selfishness  that 
frightened  him. 

The  encounter  with  the  footpads  was  so  heroic  a 
treatment  that  it  did  more  for  Derringforth  than  six 
months  would  ordinarily  have  done  for  him.  It  was 
a  tremendous  shock,  a  tremendous  struggle,  a  tre- 
mendous awakening.  He  was  stronger  and  braver 
and  better  able  to  bear  the  sorrow  of  his  life  because 
of  it. 


XXXIV. 

A  YEAR  of  struggle  had  wrought  a  change  in  Der- 
ringforth,  but  he  was  still  the  boy  when  he  called  on 
Marion  to  tell  her  that  the  engagement  must  be  post- 
poned, and,  like  a  boy,  sensitive,  petulant,  almost 
childish,  he  was  swayed  by  foolish  pride. 

When  he  entered  his  orifice  the  following  morning 
there  was  a  quiet  determination  in  his  face  that  sug- 
gested the  man.  The  turbulent  spirit  of  the  boy  had 
vanished,  and  in  its  place  had  come  a  certain  firmness 
— a  grim  stoicism. 

A  close  observer  might  have  detected  a  trace  of 
recklessness  in  his  manner — might  have  fancied,  too, 
from  the  somewhat  dogged  way  in  which  he  went 
about  his  work,  that  the  sweeter  elements  of  his  nat- 
ure had  petrified  into  unyielding  rigidness.  There 
was  a  slight  suggestion  of  cynicism  about  the  mouth, 
and  an  expression  in  the  eyes  that  was  almost  stern — 
perhaps  more  cold  than  stern — perhaps  more  pathetic 
than  cold. 

A  crisis  stared  the  Derringforths  in  the  face  this 
morning.  The  heavy  hand  of  the  Hayden  National 
192 


Iron  Company  was  raised  to  strike  them  down. 
Behind  that  hand  was  Van  Stump.  In  his  search 
for  some  means  to  crush  the  Derringforths,  he  dis- 
covered that  they  were  large  debtors  of  the  Hayden 
Company.  The  latter  was  a  corporation  whose  stock 
was  listed  on  the  New  York  exchange.  It  was, 
therefore,  an  easy  matter  for  him  to  buy  a  control- 
ling interest.  The  business  was  prosperous,  and  the 
purchase  would  not  only  prove  a  paying  investment, 
but  would  serve  his  purpose  regarding  the  Derring- 
forths. 

At  the  end  of  a  couple  of  days  he  was  in  a  position 
to  dictate  to  the  management  of  the  Hayden  Com- 
pany, and  the  very  first  stroke  of  his  hand  was 
leveled  at  the  Derringforths.  The  amount  of  the 
claim  was  sixty  seven  thousand,  four  hundred  dollars. 

The  Derringforths  had  not  expected  to  be  called 
upon  for  this  money.  They  had  in  fact  been  told  to 
take  their  own  time  for  paying  it,  and  had  accord- 
ingly felt  easy  in  this  quarter.  All  their  energies  had 
been  bent  towards  freeing  themselves  from  the  Shy- 
lock  who  had  brought  them  to  the  very  verge  of 
bankruptcy.  But  the  demand  from  the  Hayden 
people  was  couched  in  language  that  left  no  doubt  of 
its  meaning.  Van  Stump  not  only  wanted  to  humili- 
ate young  Derringforth,  but  was  anxious  to  crush  the 
firm.  The  collaterals  he  held,  for  money  advanced, 
were  improving  steadily.  With  a  better  feeling 
in  financial  circles,  the  Derringforths  would  soon  be 


able  to  raise  money  on  them  through  legitimate 
channels,  and  then  he  would  lose  the  securities  that 
he  greedily  coveted.  It  was,  therefore,  important  to 
him  that  the  blow  be  struck  without  delay. 

"  Sixty  seven  thousand  dollars  will  smash  them," 
he  muttered,  gloating  over  the  fancied  downfall. 
"  A  clever  move,  getting  hold  of  this  Hayden  busi- 
ness," he  went  on,  smiling  at  his  own  cunning,  "  a 
very  clever  move.  It  will  crush  them  so  flat  that 
they  will  never  rise  again. ' ' 

From  the  Derringforths  his  mind  drifted  to  Marion, 
and  a  look  of  cruel  triumph  came  into  his  hard,  cold 
face.  ' '  You  shall  rue  the  day,  young  woman,  that 
you  ever  snubbed  me,"  he  hissed. 

Van  Stump  had  presumed  too  much  on  the  meek- 
ness and  weakness  of  the  Derringforths.  A  new  spirit 
had  entered  the  firm.  Mr.  Derringforth  had  magni- 
fied the  importance  of  protecting  his  name.  His 
sensitiveness  and  pride  on  this  point  amounted  to  little 
short  of  weakness.  Phil  had,  from  the  first,  ques- 
tioned the  advisability  of  bolstering  up  a  name  by 
such  ruinous  expedients  as  his  father  had  resorted  to. 
He  had  protested  mildly  from  time  to  time,  but  his 
protestations  had  been  those  of  a  boy ;  now  they  were 
those  of  a  man.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  conciliating 
ugly  creditors. 

"  I  think  we  have  had  quite  enough  of  this  defen- 
sive policy,"  he  said  to  his  father.  He  spoke  in  a 
quiet,  decisive  way  that  lent  force  to  his  words. 
194 


' '  In  the  effort  to  save  our  name  we  have  ruined  it. 
From  the  minute  we  placed  ourselves  at  the  mercy  of 
that  miserable  Shylock — from  that  minute  we  were 
doomed.  It  was  a  mistake.  I  thought  so  at  the 
time  ;  I  know  it  now." 

"  It  was  a  mistake,  Phil,  you  are  right,"  responded 
Mr.  Derringforth.  "  But  we  can't  retrace  our 
steps,"  he  continued.  "We  can't  undo  the  mis- 
takes of  the  past.  We  must  meet  the  situation  as  it 
is  today,  and  it  is  very  grave. ' ' 

"The  past  is  dead,"  said  Phil.  "Let  us  forget 
it." 

There  was  indescribable  gloom,  indescribable  reso- 
lution in  these  words,  as  he  spoke  them.  They  told  a 
story  that  pierced  the  father's  heart.  Neither  spoke 
for  an  instant.  Phil  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Let  us  face  the  future  without  sentiment,"  he 
said,  "  and  meet  the  situation  boldly.  If  we  had  only 
done  this  a  year  ago  we  should  not  be  where  we  are 
today.  There  wasn't  a  creditor  then  who  would  not 
have  cheerfully  given  us  time  to  turn  around  in.  We 
could  have  made  a  showing  that  would  have  satisfied 
every  one  of  our  ability  to  pay,  and  of  the  profitable 
business  we  were  doing.  But  what  might  have  been  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  It  is  no  longer  a  question  of 
pride,  but  one  of  expediency.  This  ugly  demand  from 
the  Hayden  Company  has  worried  you  until  you  are 
sick  ;  it  has  made  me  mad.  We  have  done  the  walk- 
ing long  enough ;  now  let  somebody  else  do  it." 


Mr.  Derringforth  was  astounded  at  the  change  in 
Phil.  His  manner,  and  the  aggressive  spirit  he  mani- 
fested, were  a  revelation  to  the  father. 

It  was  only  after  a  prolonged  protest  that  the  man- 
agement of  the  Hayden  Company  yielded  to  Van 
Stump's  dictation  for  forcing  a  settlement  from  the 
Derringforths.  On  receipt  of  a  reply  from  the  lat- 
ter the  Hayden  management  felt  as  if  it  had  run  up 
against  a  stone  wall.  The  letter,  which  was  inspired 
by  young  Derringforth,  ran  as  follows : 

HAYDEN  NATIONAL  IRON  COMPANY  : 

DEAR  SIRS — Comment  on  your  action  of  yester- 
day is  hardly  necessary.  You  can  perhaps  imagine  our 
opinion  of  a  house  that  would  take  the  position  you 
have  taken,  considering  the  years  we  have  dealt 
together,  and  the  assurances  we  have  had  from  you 
— upon  which  assurances  much  of  the  business  be- 
tween us  was  done.  Whether  you  can  imagine  it  or 
not,  it  matters  little.  But  what  we  wish  to  say  is — 
and  this  we  desire  to  emphasize — that  there  is  some 
doubt,  in  our  minds,  about  your  ability  to  make  an 
immediate  collection  of  sixty  seven  thousand,  four  hun- 
dred dollars  from  this  house.  You  may  understand  the 
situation  better  than  we  do,  but,  as  we  see  it,  we  are 
persuaded  that,  if  you  attempt  the  measures  you  fore- 
shadow, you  will  begin  a  walk  that  will  prove  a  long 
and  wearisome  one  to  you. 

Very  truly  yours, 
DERRINGFORTH  &  DERRINGFORTH. 

The  letter  was  at  once  forwarded  to  Van  Stump  for 
196 


his  edification  and  advice.  There  was  a  mingling  of 
contempt  and  sarcasm  and  defiance  in  it  that  he  little 
expected  from  the  Derringforths.  He  was  livid  with 
rage,  and  stormed  about  his  library  in  a  way  that  terri- 
fied Strum. 


XXXV. 

IT  was  no  easy  matter  for  Derringforth  to  bring  his 
father  around  to  a  fighting  standpoint.  But  the  young 
man  had  developed  a  strength  of  will  that  prevailed  in 
the  end,  and  the  letter  to  the  Hayden  Company  rep- 
resented the  now  dominating  spirit  of  the  Derring- 
forths. 

The  condition  of  their  affairs  called  for  vigorous  and 
extraordinary  measures.  A  survey  of  the  situation 
made  it  clear  that  some  one  should  go  West,  to  put 
certain  property  in  such  shape  that  it  would  be  safe 
from  attack.  Mr.  Derringforth  was  too  nearly  worn 
out  to  attempt  the  journey.  He  was  actually  ill,  and 
ought  not  to  have  been  at  business.  The  only  alterna- 
tive was  that  Phil  should  go,  and  at  six  o'clock  that 
night  he  stepped  aboard  the  train  at  the  Grand  Cen- 
tral Station,  bound  for  Nebraska. 

Before  going,  he  called  on  Burrock  to  talk  over  the 
situation  in  Wall  Street. 

"  The  market  has  rallied  a  good  deal  today,"  said 
Burrock.  ' '  It  has  developed  a  strength  that  few  men 
looked  for.  My  advice  is  that  you  hang  on  to  West- 
198 


ern  Union.  While  you  are  away  I  will  look  after  your 
interests  for  you." 

"  All  right,"  replied  Derringforth.  "  You  know  I 
always  act  on  your  advice.  But  be  sure  not  to  let  me 
lose  very  much  on  the  deal.  I'm  the  next  thing  to  a 
bankrupt." 

It  was  a  relief  to  Derringforth  to  get  away  from 
New  York,  and  to  feel  that  three  full  days  stretched 
out  before  him,  without  a  hand's  turn  to  be  done — 
no  notes  to  pay,  no  mail  to  answer,  no  accounts  to 
audit  —  nothing  but  nothingness.  The  last  twenty 
four  hours  had  been  so  long  and  so  full  that  he  felt 
older  by  a  score  of  years.  Until  now  he  had  not 
had  a  minute  to  reflect  calmly  upon  all  that  had 
occurred.  His  suffering  had  been  so  keen,  so  deep, 
and  so  cruel  that,  it  seemed  to  him,  it  never  could 
have  been  compressed  into  a  single  day. 

In  memory  he  went  back  to  the  previous  night,  and 
saw  Marion  enter  the  room  to  greet  him.  He  could 
feel  her  hands  in  his — could  see  himself  beside  her  on 
the  sofa.  But  how  far  back  it  all  seemed,  and  yet 
the  pain  of  his  heart  was  that  of  a  fresh  wound.  He 
thought  of  every  word  she  had  spoken  and  of  every 
look  she  had  given  him.  The  scene  stood  out  vividly 
before  him.  Once  he  suddenly  reached  forth  his 
hands  as  if  stretching  them  out  to  her.  It  was  at  that 
point  where  he  had  almost  asked  her  forgiveness, 
almost  begged  for  her  love.  A  look  of  tenderness 
came  into  his  eyes,  and  the  rigid  lines  of  resolution 
199 


about  his  mouth  began  to  relax.  For  a  little  time 
the  old  hopeful,  pleasant  smile  was  on  his  lips.  The 
stern  determination  vanished,  and  he  was  a  boy  again. 

But  as  his  mind  wandered  on,  and  the  breach 
between  Marion  and  himself  widened — as  he  saw 
himself  leaving  her  with  a  formal  good  night — saw 
himself  stopping,  after  reaching  the  street,  and  turn- 
ing back,  swayed  by  love  too  powerful  to  yield  longer 
to  his  pride — as  these  thoughts  surged  through  his 
mind,  and  he  saw  the  house  suddenly  darkened,  his 
expression  changed.  A  stony  resolution  came  into 
his  eyes,  and  the  light  of  love  and  hope  and  sweetness 
faded  from  his  face. 

The  devil — if  there  be  such  a  creation — has  a  very 
bad  habit  of  doing  things,  at  times,  that  he  ought  not 
to.  He  is  popularly  supposed  to  inspire  all  evil  acts 
and  to  perform,  personally,  an  overwhelming  propor- 
tion of  them.  If  it  be  so  that  he  does  all  this,  the 
activity  of  his  majesty  commands  our  admiration,  and 
paralyzes  our  comprehension.  He  is  certainly  very 
great  in  his  line. 

But  there  is  a  suspicion,  in  the  minds  of  some 
people,  who  think  a  little  now  and  again,  that  it 
would  be  a  trifle  more  just  if  humanity,  as  a  whole, 
would  to  some  extent  divide  with  this  satanic  genius 
the  responsibility  for  some  of  the  thoughts  that  go 
astray  from  the  canons  of  morality  and  purity — 
divide  with  him  the  responsibility  for  an  occasional 
censurable  act. 


There  are  some  things  credited  to  him,  however, 
that  look  very  suspicious — assuming,  of  course,  that 
he  is  what  he  is  supposed  to  be.  One  of  these  is  his 
trick  of  stepping  in  at  a  critical  moment,  and  turning 
the  current  of  one's  thoughts  in  a  way  that  perhaps 
changes  the  whole  life. 

For  example,  Marion  was  reassured  of  Derringforth's 
love  by  the  discovery  that  he  had  waited  so  long  out- 
side the  house,  after  she  had  said  good  night  to  him. 
She  interpreted  his  motives  perfectly,  and  her  own 
love  went  out  to  him.  In  the  morning  she  started  to 
write  and  tell  him  all.  She  had  written  but  a  few 
sentences,  when  the  note  from  Devonshire  was  handed 
to  her. 

This  was  a  crisis  in  her  life.  She  had  turned 
towards  Derringforth,  and,  left  to  herself,  the  im- 
pulses of  her  heart,  and  the  true,  womanly  instincts 
of  her  nature,  would  have  led  her  to  him.  But  she 
was  not  left  to  work  out  her  destiny  in  her  own  way, 
guided  by  love. 

It  was  at  this  critical  point  that  the  devil  began  to 
get  in  his  work.  Richard  Devonshire  became  the  in- 
strumentality through  which  his  Satanic  majesty  gained 
touch  with  Marion.  The  result  may  be  inferred 
from  the  following  letter,  which  was  written  several 
days  after  Derringforth  had  started  for  the  West. 

DEAR  PHIL  : — I  can't  go  away  without  telling  you 
that  I  am  going.  I  hope  I  shall  not  have  to  go 
without  seeing  you.  I  said  something,  you  know, 


the  last  time  you  were  here  about  the  possibility  of 
our  going  to  Europe.  We  have  decided  to  go,  and 
shall  sail  Thursday,  one  week  from  today.  We  may 
be  away  a  long  time — perhaps  more  than  a  year,  as 
papa  wishes  to  spend  next  winter  in  Egypt.  I  hope 
you  will  come  to  see  me.  I  cannot  go  away  happy, 
without  seeing  you.  There  is  so  much  I  want  to  say 
to  you — there  was  so  much  I  wanted  to  say  to  you, 
the  last  time  you  called,  but,  as  you  know,  there  was 
an  atmosphere  of  constraint  that  made  us  both  untrue 
to  ourselves.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,  and  come 
to  see  me. 

As  ever, 

MARION. 

If  our  tickets  were  not  already  bought,  I  should 
rebel,  even  now,  against  going. 

This  letter  was  sent  to  Derringforth's  office,  and 
from  there  it  was  forwarded  to  Nebraska.  Before  it 
reached  him,  Derringforth  had  left  for  Dakota.  The 
letter  was  again  sent  after  him,  but  before  it  had 
overtaken  him,  he  started  East,  having  been  sum- 
moned home  by  a  telegram,  informing  him  of  the 
serious  illness  of  his  father. 

Mr.  Derringforth  had  dragged  himself  down  to 
the  office  for  several  days  after  Phil  went  away,  but 
finally  he  gave  up  and  took  to  his  bed.  His  illness 
speedily  developed  into  pneumonia,  and  he  had  no 
reserve  force  with  which  to  combat  the  disease.  He 
was  worn  out  in  body  and  mind  from  worry,  and  the 
struggle  he  had  undergone.  The  blow  from  the  Hay- 
den  Company  was  the  final  stroke  that  crushed  him. 
202 


He  was  barely  alive  when  Phil  reached  home.  He 
had  fixed  his  mind,  it  seemed,  on  holding  on  to  life 
long  enough  to  see  his  boy  once  more.  He  had 
prayed  that  this  wish  might  be  granted,  and  had 
asked  often  for  the  time,  as  if  calculating  the  number 
of  minutes  before  Phil  would  come. 

Mrs.  Derringforth  met  her  son  at  the  door.  One 
hurried  glance  of  inquiry  at  her  eyes,  and  his  heart 
sank  within  him.  She  led  him  softly  to  his  father's 
side.  A  smile  lighted  up  the  dying  man's  face  when 
he  felt  the  pressure  of  Phil's  hand.  He  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  into  Phil's.  The  son  pressed  his 
lips  to  his  father's  forehead.  The  father  tried  to 
speak.  "  My  boy,"  flickered  on  his  lips,  and  he 
was  gone. 


XXXVI. 

MARION  sailed  without  receiving  any  response  to 
the  letter  she  had  sent  Derringforth.  A  week  of 
waiting  and  hoping  ended  in  disappointment,  and 
she  went  on  board  the  steamer  with  listless  tread.  She 
had  never  known  deeper  depression — had  never  faced 
gloom  so  dense. 

The  fancies  of  pleasures  abroad,  that  had  won  her 
consent  to  go,  had  lost  all  their  charm.  They  were 
as  dull  and  cheerless  as  the  morning.  A  nasty  east 
wind  was  blowing,  and  a  great  gray  mass  of  fog  hung 
over  the  city  and  shut  in  the  ship.  Marion  could 
scarcely  have  felt  more  oppressed  if  she  were  going 
to  her  doom.  When  she  had  passed  up  the  gang 
plank  she  stopped  and  looked  back  with  the  hope, 
even  yet,  that  she  might  see  Derringforth.  She  could 
not  believe  that  he  would  allow  her  to  go  away  with- 
out taking  her  by  the  hand  and  wishing  her  God 
speed.  It  was  not  like  him  to  be  unforgiving — not 
like  him  to  be  rude;  and  the  failure  to  answer  her 
note  was  rudeness. 

At  this  instant  a  cab  dashed  down  the  pier.     She 
204 


saw  it,  and  her  heart  gave  a  sudden  bound.  The 
door  was  quickly  thrown  open,  and  Richard  Devon- 
shire stepped  out.  Marion  turned  away  and  hur- 
riedly sought  her  stateroom.  A  look  of  unutterable 
disappointment  was  on  her  face.  Her  last  hope  was 
shattered.  The  gang  plank  was  run  ashore,  and  the 
great  steamer  moved  out  into  the  dense  fog. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Kingsley !  "  exclaimed  Devonshire, 
some  little  time  later,  rushing  up  to  her  and  seizing 
her  hand  with  undisguised  pleasure ;  "I  have  been 
looking  everywhere  for  you  for  the  last  half  hour. ' ' 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  answered  Mrs.  Kingsley,  with  a 
smile  that  made  Devonshire  feel  very  much  at  home 
with  her. 

"  I  had  almost  concluded  that  some  dreadful  thing 
had  happened  at  the  last  minute  to  prevent  you  from 
sailing,  and  I  was  upon  the  point  of  going  back  on 
the  tug." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Devonshire  !  "  protested  Mrs.  Kingsley. 

"Upon  my  soul,  I  was.  You  can't  imagine  my 
disappointment ;  but  where  is  Miss  Kingsley?  I  hope 
she  did  not  fail  to  come." 

"Oh!  no;  she  is  in  her  stateroom.  The  excite- 
ment of  getting  away  and  the  early  hour  of  sailing 
have  given  her  a  slight  headache,  and  she  thinks  it 
best  to  be  quiet  for  a  little  time." 

If  Mrs.  Kingsley  had  said  heartache  she  would 
have  been  more  accurate  in  her  statement.  Possibly, 
though,  she  thought  it  was  headache;  possibly  she 
205 


thought  that  the  early  hour  and  the  excitement  of 
getting  away  were  alone  responsible  for  Marion's  utter 
wretchedness.  To  give  one  the  benefit  of  a  doubt  is 
charitable — even  commendable. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  answered  Devonshire,  with  a 
good  deal  of  feeling. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  returned  Mrs.  Kingsley. 
' '  A  few  hours  will  quiet  her  head,  I  am  sure. ' ' 

"A  few  hours!  "  repeated  Devonshire,  an  expres- 
sion of  disappointment  coming  into  his  face. 

' '  That  is  not  so  very  long, ' '  rejoined  Mrs.  Kings- 
ley,  understanding  him,  and  secretly  elated. 

' '  Time  is  comparative,  you  know.  A  day  is  a 
year,  or  a  year  is  a  day,  as  the  case  may  be. ' ' 

' '  And  how  is  it  in  this  case  ?  ' ' 

"  I  am  sure  you  cannot  go  astray  in  judgment," 
said  Devonshire  earnestly,  convincingly. 

"  Marion  will  be  very  much  flattered.  I  shall  tell 
her  how  time  drags  with  you  during  her  absence." 

"  Do,  please.  It  is  very  good  of  you.  I  wish  you 
would. ' ' 

Compliments,  sincere  or  otherwise,  never  fell  flatter 
than  these  from  Devonshire,  when  they  were  repeated 
to  Marion.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  be  flattered  by 
words  from  his  lips.  She  had  fled  to  her  stateroom  to 
escape  him — had  fled  there  to  be  alone.  His  com- 
pliments only  served  to  irritate  her,  and  the  presence 
of  her  mother,  bearing  such  a  message,  was  scarcely 
less  annoying. 

206 


A  combination  of  influences  had  brought  her  to  the 
point  of  yielding  to  her  mother's  will,  and  now  she 
was  bound  for  Europe.  Her  heart  had  fought  against 
going,  but  the  peculiar  circumstances  surrounding 
her,  the  strained  relations  with  Derringforth,  and 
finally  the  persuasion  of  Devonshire — an  influence 
almost  hypnotic  in  character — had  overcome  her  re- 
sistance, and  in  a  weak  moment  she  consented  to  go. 
The  promise  was  no  sooner  given  than  she  began  to 
wish  she  could  recall  it,  but  her  pride  stood  in  the  way. 

She  wrote  to  Derringforth,  hoping  he  would  come 
to  her — hoping  that  he  would  rescue  her  from  the 
influences  that  had  persuaded  her  to  do  the  thing  she 
had  fought  against  doing.  One  word  of  encourage- 
ment from  him — one  word  of  frank,  sustaining  love — 
and  she  would  have  fled  to  him  even  now  and  given 
him  all  the  sweetness  of  her  youth — all  the  love  and 
confidence  of  her  heart. 

But  he  did  not  come  to  her — did  not  answer  her 
letter — did  not  give  any  evidence  that  he  had  one 
thought  for  her,  and  the  ship  put  out  upon  the  ocean 
and  she  had  not  seen  him.  She  was  unspeakably 
wretched  and  wanted  to  be  alone.  It  was  while  in 
this  mood  that  her  mother  came  to  her  with  Devon- 
shire's compliments.  They  were  nauseating  at  this 
time,  almost  maddening. 

"  I  wish  you  would  be  good  enough  not  to  annoy 
me  with  his  flattery,"  she  said,  speaking  as  she  had 
never  spoken  to  her  mother  before. 
207 


"Why,  Marion!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kingsley,  as- 
tounded. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I  should  not  be  here  now." 

"  You  should  not  be  unjust,  my  dear." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  am.  I  have  been  persuaded 
to  make  myself  wretched.  I  have  yielded  to  please 
others — yielded  to  please  him,  in  part." 

"  It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  you  talk  this  way, 
my  child.  God  forgive  me  if  I  have  had  a  selfish 
motive  in  urging  you  to  take  this  trip." 

"Forgive  me,  mama,"  said  Marion,  drawing  her 
mother  to  her  and  kissing  her.  "  But  I  can't  help 
thinking  it  is  all  a  mistake.  I  know  you  have  done 
everything  for  my  happiness — have  done  everything 
that  seemed  to  you  best  for  me,  but,  my  dear  mama, 
is  the  result  all  that  you  could  wish  ?  I  was  very 
happy  a  year  ago — Phil  was  very  happy ;  now  we 
are  both  wretched.  He  has  lost  faith  in  me — hates 
me,  perhaps.  He  did  not  come  to  see  me  off — did 
not  answer  my  letter.  I  am  sure  I  have  treated  him 
very  badly,  or  he  would  never  have  allowed  me  to 
come  away  without  seeing  me. ' ' 

"Do  you  think  you  have  treated  him  so  very 
much  worse  than  he  has  treated  you  ?  ' '  asked  Mrs. 
Kingsley,  after  a  few  moments'  thought. 

"I  am  sure  I  must  have,"  answered  Marion, 
bitterly  condemning  herself. 

"I  can't  think  your  conclusion  is  right,  Marion, 


but  I  would  suggest  that  you  go  over  the  events  of 
the  year  carefully  and  with  a  view  to  dealing  justly 
with  yourself  as  well  as  with  Phil." 

Mrs.  Kingsley  paused,  and  the  conversation  ceased 
for  a  few  minutes,  during  which  time  Marion's  mind 
reverted  to  Derringforth,  and  for  the  thousandth  time 
she  asked  herself  why  he  had  not  answered  her  letter 
— why  he  had  not  come  to  see  her  ?  She  knew  noth- 
ing of  his  trip  West — knew  nothing  of  his  father's 
sickness  and  death. 

"  You  spoke  of  being  very  happy  a  year  ago, 
Marion,"  said  Mrs.  Kingsley,  breaking  the  silence, 
and  speaking  more  seriously  than  usual.  "  Has  the 
social  life  of  the  last  year  given  you  no  happiness  ?  " 

"  It  has  given  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,"  an- 
swered Marion. 

"  But  not  happiness  ?  " 

"  A  different  kind  of  happiness." 

"  Would  you  not  expect  a  different  kind  of  happi- 
ness now  that  your  school  days  are  over  ?  Life  is  ever 
changing.  One  cannot  go  back  from  one  period  to 
another  and  take  up  the  old  pleasures  and  find  them 
the  same.  This  is  one  reason  why  I  have  aimed  to 
lead  you  into  broader  fields.  Your  happiness  has 
been  my  study.  I  have  lived  for  you,  not  for  my- 
self, and  it  hurts  me,  my  child — it  hurts  me  more 
than  you  can  realize,  to  hear  you  say  that  you  are 
miserable,  knowing  as  I  do  that  the  blame  for  your 
unhappiness  rests  on  me." 
209 


"  I  am  very  sorry,  mama.  I  wish  I  had  not  spoken 
the  way  I  did.  I  am  not  myself  this  morning.  You 
cannot  understand  how  cruelly  hurt  I  am  at  not  see- 
ing or  hearing  from  Phil.  I  blame  myself,  not  you. 
Forgive  me,  dear  mama.  I  am  selfish — I  am  horribly 
selfish.  If  I  had  not  been,  I  should  not  have  treated 
Phil  in  a  way  to  offend  him,  and  I  should  not  have 
spoken  those  mean  words  that  hurt  you  so  much.  I 
was  annoyed  by  Mr.  Devonshire's  silly  flattery.  I 
suppose  I  ought  not  to  feel  unkindly  towards  him,  but 
I  do.  You  will  forgive  me  for  what  I  said,  won't 
you?  I  am  so  sorry." 

"  I  am  only  too  glad  to  forgive  anything  in  you, 
my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Kingsley,  taking  Marion 
in  her  arms  with  a  mother's  love.  "  I  do  not  expect 
you,  at  your  age,  to  understand  life  as  I  do,"  she 
went  on.  "  But  when  you  have  grown  older,  I  think 
you  will  see  it  from  a  broader  point  of  view.  This 
trip  will  be  an  education  to  you.  You  will  be  very 
glad,  in  a  few  years,  that  you  had  the  opportunity  to 
see  so  much  of  the  Old  World,  and  under  such  favor- 
able circumstances.  But  what  shall  I  say  to  Mr. 
Devonshire?  He  will  naturally  wish  to  know  what 
you  said  when  I  gave  you  his  message. ' ' 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  you  could  say  if  you 
were  to  tell  the  truth." 

' '  Imagine  my  saying  to  him  that  you  requested  me 
to  be  good  enough  not  to  annoy  you  with  his  flattery. 
That  would  be  a  rudeness  of  which  I  could  never  be 


guilty.  Isn't  it  just  as  well,  Marion,  to  be  a  little  bit 
reasonable?  Mr.  Devonshire  is  a  gentleman.  He 
has  been  especially  nice  to  you,  and  has  done  nothing 
for  which  you  should  blame  him.  He  is  ignorant  of 
any  motive  you  may  have  for  wishing  not  to  go 
abroad,  and  his  desire  that  you  should  go  is  compli- 
mentary to  you.  He  will  be  on  this  ship  with  us 
for  a  week.  I  hope  you  will  treat  him  with  the 
courtesy  that  he  deserves." 

"  I  do  not  like  to  be  rude  to  any  one,"  answered 
Marion,  "but  it  was  his  persuasion  that  finally  made 
me  commit  myself,  and  I  have  been  sorry  ever  since, 
wishing  I  had  never  seen  him.  The  feeling  is  unrea- 
sonable, I  know." 

"  Then  if  you  realize  that  it  is  unreasonable,  as  it 
undoubtedly  is,  I  shall  have  no  further  fears  of  your 
treating  him  rudely." 

"  What  shall  you  tell  him  I  said  ?  "  asked  Marion, 
as  her  mother  was  leaving  her. 

"  I  have  not  decided  yet  what  you  did  say,"  an- 
swered diplomatic  Mrs.  Kingsley,  with  a  triumphant 
smile. 


XXXVII. 

THE  load  that  had  crushed  Mr.  Derringforth  was 
one  that  few  young  men  of  Phil's  age  would  have 
attempted  to  shoulder.  A  few  weeks  before,  Phil 
himself  would  have  hesitated  and  turned  away.  The 
situation  was  aggravated  by  the  death  of  his  father. 
Creditors  whose  faith  in  Mr.  Derringforth,  personally, 
had  made  them  lenient  in  the  matter  of  collections, 
now  pressed  hard  for  their  claims. 

The  Hayden  Company,  obedient  to  Van  Stump's 
command,  sued  for  something  over  sixty  seven  thou- 
sand dollars.  Derringforth  fought  the  suit,  feeling 
that  he  could  well  afford  to  pay  lawyers'  fees  and 
court  expenses  in  order  that  he  might  gain  time  ;  for 
time  to  him  then  meant  everything.  The  conditions 
under  which  the  transactions  were  had  with  the  Hay- 
den  Company  enabled  him  to  make  a  technical 
defense.  Their  procedure  had  been  nasty  in  the 
extreme.  Derringforth  believed  that  this  blow  from 
them  was  the  final  stroke  that  sent  his  father  to  the 
grave.  He  felt  very  bitter.  The  spirit  of  charity 
was  not  dominating  his  thoughts  and  acts  just  now. 


Pride  did  not  stand  in  his  way,  as  it  had  in  his 
father's.  He  was  ready  to  take  any  legitimate  action 
that  would  tend  to  improve  the  situation.  His  first 
aim  was  to  get  out  of  the  clutches  of  the  money 
sharks.  He  discussed  the  situation  with  his  mother, 
and  they  agreed  in  the  opinion  that  the  wise  thing 
would  be  to  turn  their  house  into  money  at  once. 
This  was  speedily  done,  and  a  sum  was  realized  from 
the  sale  that  enabled  him  to  pay  back  several  of  the 
loans  that  had  been  secured  from  Strum. 

This  released  a  lot  of  valuable  securities  which  the 
latter  had  held  as  collateral.  On  these  Derringforth 
was  able  to  raise,  through  legitimate  channels,  enough 
money  to  take  up  the  remainder  of  the  firm's  notes 
held  by  Van  Stump. 

A  few  weeks  of  his  management,  and  Derringforth 
&  Derringforth  were  free  from  the  grasp  that  had 
dragged  them  to  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  But  they 
were  far  from  being  out  of  debt.  Their  obligations 
had  been  lessened  slightly — merely  to  the  extent  of 
the  proceeds  from  the  sale  of  the  house — but,  for  the 
most  part,  they  had  only  been  shifted. 

This  change  was  not  brought  about  without  fric- 
tion— not  without  an  injury  to  the  name  that  would 
have  cut  deep  into  the  pride  of  Mr.  Derringforth. 
Several  suits  had  been  begun  against  the  firm,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  squally  indeed.  The  standing  of  the 
house  in  financial  circles  had  been  very  nearly  de- 
stroyed. But  this  was  inevitable.  Derringforth's 
213 


boldness  bordered  on  recklessness.  Conservative 
creditors  shook  their  heads  ominously  as  they  watched 
his  methods,  and  pressed  with  redoubled  vigor  for  the 
collection  of  their  claims.  There  were  others,  of  less 
timid  nature,  who  saw  something  in  the  young  man 
that  commanded  their  admiration.  They  liked  the 
fighting  qualities  he  displayed.  But  had  they  known 
that  he  was  plunging  deeper  and  deeper  into  Wall 
Street  every  day,  they,  too,  would  have  wagged  their 
heads  ominously. 

When  his  father  died,  Derringforth  held  two  hun- 
dred shares  of  Western  Union.  Had  he  closed  out 
then,  his  experience  in  the  Street  would  have  cost  him 
a  trifle  less  than  six  hundred  dollars.  He  went  to  his 
office  the  morning  after  the  funeral  with  the  intention 
of  selling  his  stock — with  the  conviction  that  he 
would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  speculation. 

A  large  accumulation  of  mail  was  awaiting  him. 
The  demands  on  his  time  were  so  numerous  and  so 
imperative  that  the  thought  of  Wall  Street  did  not 
come  into  his  head  until  towards  night. 

"  Another  hundred — perhaps  three  or  four  hun- 
dred gone,"  he  reflected.  There  was  a  look  of  in- 
evitable resignation  in  his  face.  He  evidently  had 
no  hope  that  the  market  had  turned  in  his  favor.  His 
manner  was  grave,  almost  gloomy.  Dense  clouds 
had  set  in  about  him,  and  they  were  so  dark  that  his 
eye  could  not  penetrate  to  the  silver  lining.  An 
hour  later  a  darker  tinge  spread  over  them. 
214 


He  had  finished  his  dinner,  and  was  sitting  by  the 
library  table.  His  mother  sat  opposite.  She  was 
prostrated  by  the  death  of  her  husband.  The  atmos- 
phere of  the  house  was  gloomy  and  sad.  Derring- 
forth  had  been  trying  to  comfort  her — had  been  trying 
to  say  something  that  would  lighten  the  sorrow  of  her 
heart.  He  picked  up  a  paper  that  had  not  yet  been 
removed  from  its  wrapper.  He  opened  it  and  glanced 
over  its  contents.  He  was  not  reading.  His  mind 
was  not  with  his  eyes.  He  could  not  have  recalled  a 
word — not  until  the  name  Kingsley  riveted  his  atten- 
tion. He  read  eagerly.  A  sickening  sensation  made 
him  grasp  the  arm  of  his  chair.  The  item  stated  that 
the  Kingsleys  had  gone  abroad  fora  protracted  stay — 
perhaps  two  years.  It  went  on  to  tell  something  of 
their  plans,  and  ended  with  a  highly  flattering  refer- 
ence to  Miss  Kingsley.  It  spoke  of  her  as  one  of  the 
most  popular  girls  in  society,  adding  that  she  had 
both  beauty  and  cleverness  to  aid  her  in  her  social 
aspirations. 

Derringforth  turned  pale.  His  hands  shook  as  he 
laid  the  paper  down.  A  steely  coldness  came  into 
his  face.  He  was  trying  to  master  himself. 

The  gloom  of  the  night  did  not  disappear  with  the 
coming  up  of  the  sun.  It  was  denser  and  blacker 
than  on  the  previous  day.  Derringforth  faced  it 
with  grim  resolve.  It  had  been  a  night  of  bitterness, 
of  sorrow,  of  regret,  of  indignation.  He  could  see 
no  light  anywhere.  But  the  sadness  of  his  mother's 


face  called  up  all  his  pity.  He  tried  to  speak  a  few 
words  of  cheer  to  her  before  going  down  town  to 
business,  but  his  words  were  without  life ;  there  was 
no  cheer  within  his  own  heart.  He  could  not  give 
forth  that  which  he  did  not  have. 

The  day  was  on,  and  the  work  of  the  day  must  be 
done.  The  first  thing  was  to  close  out  his  stock. 
He  turned  to  the  market  report  and  ran  his  eye  over 
the  list.  It  rested  on  Western  Union.  He  started, 
and  then  held  the  paper  up  closer,  to  make  sure. 

"An  advance  of  five  points  and  a  quarter  !  "  he 
exclaimed.  "Impossible,  impossible!"  Then  he 
read  the  financial  editorial,  and  found  that  the  quota- 
tion was  correct — that  the  stock  had  actually  made 
this  sudden  leap. 

"  This  is  marvelous,"  he  meditated.  "  It  makes 
me  richer  by  over  a  thousand  dollars  than  I  was  yes- 
terday— richer  by  twelve  or  thirteen  hundred  than  I 
expected. ' ' 

He  had  been  so  sure  that  the  stock  had  made  a  fur- 
ther decline  that  he  had  not  looked  at  the  quotations 
in  the  evening  paper,  fearing  that  the  loss  would  be 
greater  than  he  even  dared  to  fancy. 

Gloom  always  breeds  gloom.  A  shaft  of  sunshine 
penetrating  the  clouds  spreads  a  flood  of  light  over 
all.  The  atmosphere  is  warmed  and  sweetened  and 
made  buoyant.  This  sudden  bit  of  good  luck  re- 
awakened an  almost  forgotten  sensation  in  Derring- 
forth.  He  had  pulled  against  a  stubborn,  adverse 
216 


tide  until  his  stroke  had  become  fixed.  He  plied 
the  oars  with  a  dogged  persistency.  Hope  had  played 
him  false  so  many  times  that  he  no  longer  looked 
toward  it.  He  had  turned  his  back  upon  it  with  a 
frown.  It  was  at  this  time,  when  everything  was 
blackest,  that  this  shaft  of  sunshine  penetrated  the 
gloom.  He  faced  towards  it  with  a  glad  heart.  A 
new  light  was  in  his  face  as  he  looked  forward  to  a 
career  which,  but  a  day  before,  he  had  resolved  to 
abandon  forever.  Verily  it  is  the  little  things  of  life 
that  shape  our  ends. 


XXXVIII. 

THE  scope  of  Derringforth's  transactions  in  the 
Street  constantly  broadened.  The  tide  was  with  him 
— luck  was  with  him.  His  profits  grew  amazingly. 
It  mattered  little  what  he  touched,  he  seldom  sus- 
tained a  loss.  The  excitement  was  exhilarating.  It 
largely  absorbed  his  thoughts,  leaving  him  little  op- 
portunity for  unhappy  reflections,  and  yet  he  could 
not  get  entirely  away  from  these. 

A  good  share  of  his  time  was  still  devoted  to  the 
old  business  of  Derringforth  &  Derringforth.  Every- 
thing connected  with  it  reminded  him  of  his  father. 
The  wound  healed  slowly.  That  other  sorrow — that 
living  sorrow,  still  cast  its  shadow  over  him. 

Marion  had  been  abroad  six  months  now,  and  he 
had  not  heard  a  word  from  her.  The  letter  she  sent 
him  a  week  before  sailing  was  still  in  Dakota,  tucked 
away  in  a  dusty  pigeonhole  in  the  little  country  hotel, 
where  Derringforth  had  stopped  in  the  winter.  He 
did  not  leave  his  address,  and  the  proprietor  of  that 
inconsequential  hostelry,  thinking  that  without  a 
street  number  in  New  York  the  letter  would  never 
218 


reach  its  owner,  decided  to  hold  it  for  him.  It  was 
accordingly  put  aside  and  forgotten. 

Derringforth  had  been  astounded,  on  reading  of 
Marion's  departure  for  Europe,  to  think  that  she 
would  go  away  without  giving  him  a  chance  to  say 
good  by.  He  needed  no  further  proof  of  her  faith- 
lessness. Embittered,  he  tried  to  force  himself  to 
forget  her. 

But  it  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  forget  one  who  has 
entered  so  largely  into  a  life  as  Marion  had  into  Der- 
ringforth's. 

Down  deep  in  his  heart — far  down  beneath  the 
bitterness  and  cynicism  that  tinged  his  thoughts, 
lurked  the  hope  that  some  day  he  might  receive  a 
letter  from  her.  A  strange  eagerness  possessed  him 
to  get  his  mail  on  the  days  of  incoming  steamers  from 
Europe.  This  feeling  was  incompatible  with  his  ef- 
forts to  forget  Marion.  He  knew  it,  and  despised 
himself  for  the  longing  that  he  had  not  yet  been  able 
to  force  from  him.  But  each  time  the  will  pressure 
was  increased,  and  the  sweetness  of  his  heart  yielded 
to  deeper  cynicism. 

Sometimes  the  thought  had  occurred  to  him  that 
he  was  at  fault — that  Marion  could  not  have  written 
to  him  after  his  coldness  the  last  time  he  saw  her. 

"  I  wonder  if  this  is  the  real  cause?  "  he  reflected. 
"  If  I  thought  it  were — but  no,  it  can't  be.  There 
is  no  shadow  of  reason  for  such  a  belief. ' ' 

Nevertheless  the  impulse  to  write  to  her  almost  mas- 
219 


tered  him  at  times,  but  with  a  grim  resolve  he  choked 
back  these  better  feelings. 

One  day  in  searching  through  his  pocketbook  he 
came  across  a  clipping  from  a  newspaper.  The  color 
suddenly  left  his  face,  and  a  dark  frown  gathered  on 
his  brow  as  he  read.  A  strange,  fierce  light  came  into 
his  eyes.  Presently  he  took  up  the  item  and  read 
again  : 

"  She  has  both  beauty  and  cleverness  to  aid  her  in 
her  social  aspirations. ' '  Then  with  a  flash  of  scorn 
he  crushed  the  scrap  of  paper  and  hurled  it  from  him, 
repeating  contemptuously  the  words,  ' '  social  aspira- 
tions. ' ' 

"  Nothing  is  too  sacred  to  be  sacrificed  to  this  god 
of  pleasure,"  he  muttered,  with  a  curl  of  the  lip. 
"Little  she  cares  for  a  man's  heartache;  little  she 
cares  for  anything  except  the  flattery  and  dazzle  of 
society.  My  father's  death,  even,  has  not  moved 
her,  and  it  was  she — this  girl,  whose  heart  hasn't  a 
single  throb  of  loyalty,  whom  I  wanted  to  make  my 
wife. 

"  Poverty  was  indeed  kinder  to  me  than  1 
thought,"  he  went  on,  swayed  by  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart.  "  The  grasp  of  that  miserable,  cringing  Shy- 
lock  was  soft  and  tender  compared  with  the  fate  I 
sought.  God  be  praised  that  I  escaped.  I  was  blind, 
but  now  I  see.  Men  are  fools  in  their  eagerness  to 
enslave  themselves.  I  was  one  of  them — was  ready 
to  give  up  my  freedom,  my  life  even,  and  for  what? 

220 


Love — love,  did  I  say?  No,  no,  there  is  no  longer 
any  such  thing  as  love. ' ' 

The  growth  of  Derringforth's  cynicism  had  been 
stimulated  by  close  association  with  Burrock.  The 
latter  had  had  an  ' '  affair, ' '  and  his  regard  for  woman 
was  tinged  with  contempt.  He  had  not  sought  to 
make  Derringforth  think  as  he  thought — feel  as  he 
felt.  Had  he  attempted  this,  the  effect  would  have 
been  healthful  on  Derringforth,  as  it  would  have 
aroused  his  resistance.  As  it  was,  there  was  no  guard 
against  the  insidious  influence  of  Burrock's  unhealthy 
views. 

Burrock  was  not  a  man  of  fine  fiber.  There  was  a 
world  of  difference  between  him  and  Derringforth. 
Their  association  was  a  matter  of  accident.  Wall 
Street  had  brought  them  together  at  a  time  when  Der- 
ringforth was  ready  to  grasp  at  any  straw  that  prom- 
ised the  aid  he  sought.  But  beyond  Wall  Street  there 
was  little  in  common  between  them  at  first.  As  time 
went  on,  however,  they  grew  toward  each  other.  The 
growth  was  to  the  advantage  of  Burrock — to  the  dis- 
advantage of  Derringforth. 

Burrock  knew  that  Marion  had  gone  abroad,  al- 
though Derringforth  had  not  mentioned  her  name  since 
her  departure — in  fact,  not  since  the  night  on  which 
he  had  last  seen  her.  It  was  evident  to  Burrock  that 
a  rupture  of  some  kind  had  taken  place.  Derring- 
forth's silence  increased  his  curiosity.  Delicacy  of 
feeling  was  not  a  conspicuous  trait  in  his  character, 

221 


but  it  had  been  sufficient  to  prevent  him  from  men- 
tioning Marion's  name  to  Derringforth.  There  never 
happened  to  be  a  reasonable  excuse  for  doing  so.  But 
one  day  his  chance  came.  It  was  Sunday.  He  was 
lounging  back  in  an  easy  chair  at  his  rooms,  reading 
the  foreign  gossip.  Presently  he  came  across  an  ac- 
count of  a  coaching  trip.  The  mention  of  a  Miss 
Kingsley  of  New  York  as  one  of  the  party  fastened 
his  attention.  The  item  went  on  to  say  that  she  was 
one  of  the  most  attractive  American  girls  in  Europe. 
"  It  is  rumored,"  continued  the  writer,  "that  Rich- 
ard Devonshire,  a  young  Englishman  of  excellent 
social  position,  who  is  also  of  the  party,  is  paying 
devoted  attention  to  Miss  Kingsley.  But  his  is 
not  the  only  British  heart  that  this  American  girl 
has  set  to  quicker  action.  Lord  Hethersford  and  the 
Duke  of  Huntingdon  are  among  her  most  ardent 
admirers. ' ' 

There  was  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  Burrock's  eyes 
when  he  had  finished  reading  this  bit  of  gossip. 

"Confirms  my  theory — just  what  I  expected — 
wouldn't  trust  a  woman  far  as  I  could  throw  an  ele- 
phant— all  alike — sorry  for  Derringforth — explains 
why  he  has  kept  so  glum — something  he  had  to  learn, 
though — every  man  learns  it  sooner  or  later. ' ' 

Burrock's  concern  for  Derringforth  was  far  less  than 
his  delight  at  what  he  regarded  as  the  discovery  of 
Marion's  disloyalty.  He  had  no  object  in  wishing  her 
to  be  disloyal  beyond  the  desire  to  see  his  insane  the- 

222 


ory  regarding  woman  verified.  He  was  fond  of  Der- 
ringforth,  in  so  far  as  his  selfish  nature  was  capable  of 
fondness. 

Armed  with  this  cutting  he  started  out  to  find  Der- 
ringforth.  It  was  the  opportunity  he  had  been  long- 
ing for.  It  would  open  a  subject  that  he  had  not 
hitherto  dared  approach. 

Derringforth  was  at  home.  Burrock  shot  a  quick 
glance  at  him.  "  No,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  he  can't 
have  seen  it.  He  is  as  cool  and  undisturbed  as 
usual." 

"I'm  glad  you  called,"  said  Derringforth.  "I 
have  just  read  a  capital  financial  article.  I  want  you 
to  read  it.  We  are  going  to  have  a  strong  market, 
mark  my  words." 

Burrock  took  the  paper  and  glanced  over  the  article 
in  a  halfhearted  fashion.  "  Yes,  looks  well,"  he  said. 
' '  I  think  you  are  right — market  should  boom. ' ' 

Derringforth  began  telling  why  he  looked  for  an 
advance  in  prices  when  Burrock  interrupted  him. 

"  By  the  way,  old  man,"  he  said,  plunging  his  fin- 
gers into  his  vest  pocket  and  bringing  out  a  scrap  of 
paper,  "here  is  something  I  clipped  from  today's 
Herald — may  interest  you." 

Derringforth  took  the  cutting  and  quickly  ran  his 
eye  over  it.  A  pallor  like  that  of  death  came  into  his 
face.  But  beyond  this  and  a  slight  trembling  of  his 
hand  as  he  passed  the  clipping  to  Burrock,  there  was 
no  indication  of  the  tumult  within. 
223 


"You  may  keep  it,"  said  Burrock.  "Doubtless 
interests  you  more  than  me." 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  it  does  not  interest  me 
sufficiently  to  stimulate  a  desire  to  retain  it,"  an- 
swered Derringforth  with  steely  indifference.  There 
was  something  in  the  way  he  spoke  that  warned  Bur- 
rock of  the  danger  of  proceeding  further  with  the  sub- 
ject. Nevertheless  he  was  not  going  to  be  put  off  in 
this  way.  He  wished  to  say  his  say  about  women — 
about  this  woman  in  particular.  He  was  sure  that  she 
had  misused  Derringforth,  and  he  wished  to  "sympa- 
thize "  with  him. 

"I  am  glad,  old  man,  you  have  so  little  interest  in 
her — thought  you  were  still  in  love  with  her — wanted 
for  months  to  talk  it  over  with  you — glad  I  was  mis- 
taken— fortunate  you've  got  over  it  so  easily — she  isn't 
worthy  of " 

"Stop  !  "  said  Derringforth,  raising  his  hand  in  a 
warning  gesture.  "  Not  a  word  that  reflects  on  Miss 
Kingsley. ' '  The  fire  flashed  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke, 
but  his  control  over  himself  was  perfect. 

Burrock  was  chagrined.  The  hot  blood  burned  in 
his  cheeks,  but  he  bridled  his  tongue  with  caution. 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  reflect  on  her  individually," 
he  said  in  an  attempt  at  apology.  "  I  know  nothing 
against  her  personally  —  simply  know  that  she  is  a 
woman,  and  that  is  enough." 

"  No,  not  enough  to  warrant  you  in  even  breathing 
aught  against  her,  individually  or  collectively,"  an- 
224 


swered  Derringforth.  His  manner  left  no  room  to 
doubt  his  earnestness.  "  This  is  the  first  jar  we  have 
had,  Burrock,"  he  went  on.  " //  must  be  the  last. 
You  will  apologize  for  the  reference  you  made  to  Miss 
Kingsley,  or  I  shall  forget  that  I  ever  knew  you." 

Burrock  hesitated  for  an  instant  and  then  held  out 
his  hand.  "I  am  sorry,  Derringforth;  I  certainly 
did  not  intend  to  say  anything  offensive  to  you.  I 
hope  you  will  overlook  what  I  said.  I  know  nothing 
against  Miss  Kingsley,  and  will  take  good  care  not  to 
speak  of  her  again. ' ' 

Derringforth  took  the  proffered  hand,  believing  it 
was  extended  in  good  faith.  "  I  am  sure  you  did  not 
intend  to  offend  me,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  am  glad  you 
have  made  it  possible  for  me  to  forget  the  occurrence 
of  this  unpleasant  incident. ' ' 


XXXIX. 

A  LARGE  English  steamer  was  plowing  through  the 
waves  toward  Sandy  Hook.  A  pilot  boat  had  just 
been  sighted.  The  passengers  crowded  eagerly  to  the 
rail  and  watched  its  approach.  It  was  to  be  the  first 
coming  in  touch  with  things  of ' '  home. ' '  A  little  boat 
put  out  from  the  vessel  with  the  huge  number  on  her 
sail,  and  a  pilot  was  rowed  to  the  side  of  the  big  steam- 
er. A  bundle  of  newspapers  was  sticking  out  from 
his  pocket.  These  were  quickly  bought  up  by  the 
ocean  travelers,  thirsting  for  "  news." 

On  the  forward  deck  was  a  tall,  graceful  young 
woman,  with  a  bright,  cheerful  face  that  had  won  much 
admiration  abroad.  She  leaned  over  her  father's  chair 
and  ran  her  eye  over  the  paper  he  was  reading.  Pres- 
ently Mr.  Kingsley  turned  the  page.  Marion  gave  a 
sudden  start  and  grasped  her  father's  arm.  A  big  dis- 
play heading  had  attracted  her  attention.  This  is  what 
she  read  beneath  it : 

Phil  Derringforth,  the  young  man  who  has  made 
things  lively  in  the  Street  for  the  last  few  months,  has 
226 


gone  to  the  wall  with  a  crash.  His  losses,  as  near  as 
can  be  learned,  amount  to  something  over  two  million 
dollars.  He  was  believed  to  be  worth  a  clean  million 
twenty  four  hours  ago  ;  now  he  is  this  much  worse  off 
than  nothing.  The  dramatic  side  of  Wall  Street  is 
seen  to  perfection  in  his  case. 

Derringforth  began  speculating  at  about  the  time  of 
his  father's  death,  which  occurred  nearly  two  years 
ago.  The  firm  of  Derringforth  &  Derringforth,  which 
consisted  of  father  and  son,  was  heavily  involved  at 
the  time  of  the  senior  partner's  death.  It  had  been 
in  a  bad  way  for  a  year  and  a  half.  Young  Derring- 
forth showed  great  ability  in  managing  the  firm's  af- 
fairs, after  the  business  came  into  his  hands — so  great, 
in  fact,  that  he  was  able  to  pay  up  all  indebtedness,  and 
come  out  with  a  profit.  But  he  had  become  interested 
in  Wall  Street,  and  finally  closed  out  the  old  business 
and  gave  all  his  time  to  speculation.  His  boldness 
brought  him  quickly  into  prominence.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  be  a  power  in  the  Street  when  his  mother  died 
suddenly.  The  shock  was  very  severe  on  him.  He 
kept  away  from  the  Street  for  a  few  weeks,  but  on  re- 
turning began  speculation  with  a  recklessness  that 
seemed  born  of  desperation.  Luck  was  with  him  until 
he  was  stabbed  in  the  back  by  a  friend — one  Burrock, 
a  miserable  fellow  who  would  sell  out  his  own  father  if 
it  were  to  his  interest  to  do  so. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  It  seems  that  about  a 
year  before  the  death  of  the  senior  Derringforth  the 
firm  fell  into  the  hands  of  J.  Harrington  Van  Stump, 
a  rich  Shylock  who  squeezed  the  life  blood  out  of  the 
house.  Van  Stump  is  well  known  in  social  circles,  is 
very  rich,  and  poses  as  a  man  of  exemplary  character. 
The  Derringforths,  up  to  the  time  of  the  senior  partner's 
death,  did  not  know  the  hand  that  had  dragged  them 
227 


to  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  Their  transactions  were 
had  through  an  attorney — one  Martin  Strum,  a  tool 
of  Van  Stump's.  But  after  the  father  died  the  son  in 
some  way  found  out  the  name  of  the  real  Shylock,  and 
with  the  daring  of  a  young  man  he  entered  into  a  fight 
that  caused  Van  Stump  a  great  deal  of  annoyance  and 
eventually  a  heavy  loss.  There  was  mutual  hatred  be- 
tween the  two  men.  Van  Stump,  as  the  story  goes, 
bought  a  controlling  interest  in  the  Hay  den  National 
Iron  Company  with  the  evident  purpose  of  crushing 
the  Derringforths.  He  succeeded  to  the  extent  of 
driving  the  senior  Derringforth  to  his  grave.  Young 
Derringforth  finally  came  into  possession  of  certain  in- 
formation that  enabled  him,  in  company  with  others, 
to  make  a  powerful  attack  on  the  Hayden  Company. 
The  stock  went  down  with  a  rush.  Van  Stump  bought 
liberally,  with  the  purpose  of  stemming  the  tide,  but 
the  coup  was  so  well  planned  that  the  bottom  seemed 
to  drop  completely  from  under  the  stock.  Van  Stump, 
always  a  coward,  got  frightened  and  sold  his  entire 
interest  in  the  Hayden  Company,  netting  a  loss  of 
nearly  half  a  million  dollars. 

This  was  sweet  revenge  for  Derringforth,  but  it  was 
not  all.  The  assault  netted  him  a  profit  of  nearly  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars.  This  was  the  first  big 
money  he  had  made,  and  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  his 
own  power. 

Van  Stump,  it  is  said,  was  the  most  angry  man 
New  York  has  seen  in  a  generation.  He  swore  venge- 
ance on  Derringforth.  War  was  declared.  But  the 
god  of  battle  was  with  the  young  man  until  treachery 
in  one  he  trusted  landed  him  at  the  feet  of  his  foe. 
It  was  a  contemptible  procedure  on  the  part  of  Van 
Stump,  and  inconceivable  on  the  part  of  Burrock.  It 
seems  that  the  latter  and  Derringforth  had  been  old 
228 


school  friends,  and  that  it  was  through  Burrock  that 
Derringforth  got  into  speculation.  The  two  had 
worked  together  for  a  time,  but  eventually  Derring- 
forth branched  out  independently  of  Burrock.  The 
latter  was  envious  of  Derringforth's  rapid  rise  in  the 
Street,  but  as  a  matter  of  policy  kept  on  friendly  terms 
with  him.  He  retained  Derringforth's  confidence, 
and  was  familiar  with  his  assault  on  the  Hayden  Com- 
pany. 

Finally,  through  some  means,  Burrock  was  brought 
in  touch  with  Van  Stump.  From  that  hour  Derring- 
forth's fate  was  sealed.  Van  Stump  was  kept  in- 
formed of  his  plans.  Every  move  he  made  or  con- 
templated making  was  laid  before  the  old  Shylock. 
Armed  with  this  information  it  was  not  a  difficult 
matter  for  him  to  lead  Derringforth  into  a  trap. 
Much  sympathy  is  expressed  for  the  young  man  in  the 
Street. 

It  was  a  singular  coincidence  that  the  first  thing 
that  greeted  Marion's  eyes,  as  she  approached  home, 
should  be  this  startling  account  of  Derringforth's 
downfall,  giving  as  it  did  a  brief  outline  of  his  career 
during  her  absence  of  almost  two  years. 

"Oh,  poor  Phil!"  she  exclaimed.  "This  is 
dreadful,  dreadful !  and  we  knew  nothing  about  the 
death  of  your  father  and  mother. ' ' 

"It  is  shocking,"  said  Mr.  Kingsley.  "  I  can- 
not realize  it." 

In  all  the  time  Marion  had  been  away  she  had  not 
heard  from  Phil.  Her  letter  remained  unanswered, 
and  she  was  too  proud  to  write  him  a  second  time. 
229 


There  was  but  one  conclusion  to  draw,  and  that  was 
that  he  was  angry  and  wished  to  break  with  her.  The 
thought  was  a  bitter  one,  but  there  was  no  other 
reasonable  explanation.  Why  then  should  she  humil- 
iate herself  by  venturing  to  write  again  ?  The  possi- 
bility that  her  letter  did  not  reach  him  never  entered 
her  mind. 

He  had  deliberately  ignored  her  note ;  had  delib- 
erately refused  to  call  on  her  before  her  departure. 
This  was  a  cutting  conclusion  for  a  girl  of  Marion's 
pride.  Indignation  was  the  inevitable  result.  The 
love  of  her  heart  was  embittered.  She  tried  to  forget 
Derringforth,  even  as  he  was  trying  at  that  very  time 
to  forget  her. 

There  was  nothing  in  her  life  abroad  to  remind  her 
of  him ;  there  was  everything  in  it  to  bury  the  past 
deep  beneath  a  constantly  changing  panorama  of 
pleasures.  She  had  hitherto  held  herself  in  check, 
always  with  the  thought  of  Derringforth.  But  she 
was  free  now  to  accept  attention  without  restraint. 
Conscience  had  dropped  its  warning  finger.  She 
filled  her  lungs  with  deep,  long  draughts  of  pleasure. 
She  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  delicious  intoxication. 
She  was  courted,  admired,  flattered,  feted.  The  ex- 
hilaration was  sweet  to  her.  It  became  her  life,  her 
soul,  her  very  self.  Suitors  for  her  hand  failed  to  en- 
tice her  from  these  effervescent  delights. 

"Mama  was  right,"  she  told  herself.  "A  girl 
ought  not  to  marry  before  she  is  twenty  five.  I  cer- 
230 


tainly  shall  not,  and  I  shall  keep  myself  free  from  all 
entanglements  so  that  I  can  enjoy  myself.  One  thing 
is  sure,  I  will  never  become  engaged  until  I  am  ready 
to  marry.  When  I  have  grown  tired  of  this  sort  of 
pleasure,  then  I  suppose  I  shall  marry,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  tie  myself  down  so  long  as  I  enjoy  the  life  of 
a  girl.  There  is  plenty  of  time  yet  foF  me  to  think  of 
marrying. ' ' 

Richard  Devonshire's  fate  was  only  that  of  many 
another  man  whose  heart  Marion  had  quickened  to 
the  tune  of  love.  But  she  managed  with  a  clever  tact 
that  enabled  her  to  retain  the  friendship  of  all —  the 
admiration  of  many.  This  was  true  of  Devonshire  ; 
it  was  equally  true  of  Burton  Edwards,  who  still 
loved  her  deeply,  though  he  had  followed  her  to 
Europe  and  turned  his  face  homeward  without  the 
promise  he  had  sought.  Sometimes  Marion  contrasted 
the  ardor  of  Edwards  with  the  indifference  of  Der- 
ringforth.  But  Edwards  was  not  the  only  man  she 
had  contrasted  with  Phil.  All  alike  had  been  com- 
pared with  him,  and  though  she  had  tried  to  for- 
get him  there  was  still,  down  deep  in  her  heart,  a  feel- 
ing for  him  that  she  had  never  had  for  any  other 
man. 

Whenever  her  thoughts  strayed  to  Derringforth 
she  saw  him  as  she  had  seen  him  in  the  past.  There 
was  no  change  in  his  appearance.  He  had  grown  no 
older.  In  fancy,  she  could  see  him  at  his  office,  pen 
in  hand,  busy  with  correspondence,  or  perhaps  at 
231 


home  reading  in  his  favorite  corner.  She  could  see 
his  father  in  his  big  easy  chair,  smoking  an  after  din- 
ner cigar,  and  Mrs.  Derringforth,  a  little  way  from 
him,  busy  with  some  piece  of  fancy  work.  The 
thought  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  anything  out 
of  the  ordinary  had  taken  place  with  the  Derring- 
forths  during  her  absence. 

This  newspaper  account,  telling  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Derringforth's  death,  and  of  Phil's  failure,  was  there- 
fore a  rude  awakening  to  a  sad  reality.  She  was  in- 
expressibly shocked.  Her  heart  was  warm  with  sym- 
pathy for  Phil,  while  she  condemned  herself  for  the 
bitter  feelings  she  had  had  for  him — condemned  her- 
self for  the  little  thought  she  had  given  him. 


XL. 

COLONEL  GEOFFREY  RAVBURN  invited  Derring- 
forth  to  go  down  to  his  Southern  home  with  him  for 
a  few  days'  rest.  The  invitation  was  little  short  of  a 
command. 

"  Rest !  ' '  exclaimed  Derringforth,  when  the  colonel 
mentioned  the  matter  the  day  after  his  failure. 

"  Certainly,  and  why  not?  You  will  never  have 
a  better  opportunity.  There  is  nothing  you  can  do 
here  during  the  next  few  days.  Your  affairs  are  in 
the  hands  of  your  lawyers." 

"  You  are  extremely  kind,"  answered  Derringforth. 
"  I  appreciate  the  invitation  very  much,  but  think 
how  it  would  look  for  me  to  go  off  on  a  pleasure  trip 
at  this  time." 

"  Hang  the  looks  !  "  returned  the  colonel.  "  I  am 
your  largest  creditor,  and  if  I  do  not  grumble  no  one 
else  should." 

"  But  every  one  has  not  your  generous  eyes." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  young  man.  Make  your 
plans  to  start  with  me  tomorrow  morning.  I  can't 
allow  you  to  break  down — you  owe  me  too  much 
233 


money.  A  few  days'  rest  will  give  you  a  firmer 
stroke.  You  must  put  yourself  in  condition  to  jump 
in  and  hammer  out  another  fortune." 

It  was  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  after  Marion  had 
read  of  Derringforth's  failure.  She  stood  by  the  rail 
of  the  big  Cunarder  that  had  borne  her  safely  across 
the  Atlantic.  The  steamer  was  moving  majestically 
up  the  Narrows.  Marion's  heart  beat  with  joy  as  she 
saw  the  familiar  sights  dear  to  all  American  eyes. 

The  great  ship  steamed  steadily  on  and  presently 
ran  into  the  busy  waters  of  the  Hudson.  A  ferry 
boat  put  out  from  the  New  York  side  and  headed 
straight  for  the  New  Jersey  shore. 

The  great  ocean  steamer  loomed  up  as  a  monster 
beside  the  little  side  wheeler.  A  sea  of  faces  peered 
over  the  rail  and  looked  down  upon  the  upturned  faces 
on  the  little  boat.  Two  men  stood  somewhat  apart 
from  the  others  on  the  river  craft.  One  was  a  tall, 
athletically  built  young  man,  dressed  in  a  traveling 
suit.  His  companion  was  his  senior  by  perhaps  a 
score  or  more  of  years — a  man  of  military  bearing  and 
strikingly  fine  presence. 

A  cry  escaped  the  lips  of  one  of  the  steamer's  pas- 
sengers, followed  by  the  frantic  waving  of  a  feminine 
handkerchief.  Derringforth  saw  it,  and  saw,  too,  a 
very  pretty  face  turned  towards  his  with  an  eager 
smile.  He  looked  for  an  instant  and  then  turned 
his  head  away  without  a  sign  of  recognition. 

Marion's  heart  sank  within  her.  The  distance  be- 
234 


tween  the  two  boats  widened ;  the  distance  between 
herself  and  Phil,  it  seemed  to  her,  widened  in  geo- 
metrical progression. 

It  was  a  bright,  crisp  November  morning  when 
Derringforth  and  Colonel  Rayburn  reached  their  des- 
tination. The  soft  rays  of  the  Virginia  sun  made  it 
seem  to  Derringforth  like  October  in  the  Berkshires. 
Colonel  Rayburn  held  the  lines.  Derringforth  sat 
beside  him.  The  horses  flew  over  the  ground  at  a 
rattling  pace.  The  air  was  exhilarating.  Derring- 
forth drew  in  long  breaths  and  feasted  his  eyes  on  the 
scenery,  made  beautiful  by  the  autumn  foliage. 

"  This  will  do  you  a  world  of  good,  my  boy,"  said 
the  colonel. 

"  It  has  done  me  a  world  of  good  already,  I 
fancy,"  answered  Derringforth.  "  I  believe  my  chest 
is  larger  by  two  inches,"  and  he  swelled  it  with  an- 
other long  breath  of  that  life  giving  air. 

The  horses  shot  between  two  great  stone  piers  and 
into  the  curving  roadway  of  private  grounds.  Der- 
ringforth caught  a  glimpse,  through  the  trees,  of  a 
typical  Southern  home.  A  flitting  shadow  attracted 
his  eye  and  instantly  vanished  behind  the  foliage. 
The  carriage  swung  to  the  left.  The  horses  bounded 
forward.  The  trees  thinned.  A  tennis  costume,  a 
racket,  a  graceful  figure  burst  upon  his  vision.  Ah, 
yes !  another  similar  costume,  flying  after  a  ball, 
speeding  from  the  racket  of  a  young  man  on  the 
other  side  of  the  net. 


XLL 

DERRINGFORTH  felt  more  at  home  with  the  Ray- 
burns  at  the  end  of  an  hour  than  he  would  have  felt 
with  some  New  England  family  at  the  end  of  a  week. 
He  saw  Southern  hospitality  in  its  perfection.  It  was 
a  revelation  to  him — a  delightful  realization  of  a  fancy 
founded  on  what  he  had  read  and  heard.  He  was 
glad  he  had  come,  though  but  a  little  while  before, 
when  he  first  caught  sight  of  the  tennis  players,  he 
felt  like  leaping  from  the  carriage  and  running  'cross 
lots  to  the  railway  station,  to  escape  meeting  these 
girls.  He  had  not  known  that  Colonel  Rayburn  had 
a  daughter,  and  only  expected  to  meet  his  wife. 

But  no  young  man  in  his  right  mind  could  regret 
making  the  acquaintance  of  Dorothy  Rayburn.  He 
felt  like  calling  her  Dorothy  already,  and  fancied  that 
she  was  likely  to  call  him  Phil  at  any  moment.  Her 
cousin,  Nellie  Bradwin,  was  also  an  attractive  girl,  and 
Mrs.  Rayburn  was  a  charming  woman.  Stanley  Ved- 
der  was  the  young  man  playing  tennis  with  the  girls 
when  Colonel  Rayburn  and  Derringforth  drove  up 
from  the  station. 

236 


Vedder  started  to  go  after  meeting  Derringforth 
and  talking  for  a  few  moments  with  him. 

"You  must  not  go,  Stanley,"  said  the  colonel. 
"  I  want  you  to  help  entertain  Mr.  Derringforth." 

Vedder's  face  lighted  up.     He  did  not  want  to  go. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  anything  I  can  to  add 
to  Mr.  Derringforth 's  pleasure,"  he  replied. 

The  two  young  men  were  of  about  the  same  age. 
The  one  had  made  a  reputation  as  an  athlete  in  col- 
lege ;  .  the  other  had  made  and  lost  a  fortune.  The 
training  of  these  two  had  been  widely  different. 
Which  was  the  better  equipped  to  fight  the  battles  of 
life — Derringforth  with  an  indebtedness  of  a  million 
dollars  and  not  a  cent  with  which  to  pay  it,  or  Ved- 
der with  his  enviable  football  record  and  a  consider- 
able knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek  ?  Possibly  this 
thought  came  into  Colonel  Rayburn's  mind  as  he  saw 
these  two  young  men  side  by  side.  It  would  not 
have  been  surprising  if  he  had  asked  himself  which 
would  make  the  more  desirable  husband.  The  look 
in  Vedder's  eyes  whenever  they  met  Dorothy's  would 
certainly  have  suggested  the  query. 

In  the  afternoon  the  horses  were  saddled  and  the 
four  young  people  mounted  them  and  started  off  in 
gay  spirits  for  an  hour's  royal  sport.  Vedder  had 
cleverly  managed  to  take  a  position  that  would  natu- 
rally bring  him  beside  Dorothy.  Derringforth  did 
not  notice  the  maneuver.  He  found  himself  between 
the  two  girls,  and  as  all  rode  abreast  at  first,  he  felt 
237 


that  he  was  in  luck,  happening  to  be  just  where  he 
was  when  the  start  was  made. 

But  when  the  main  road  was  reached  they  broke 
up  into  couples.  Then  it  was  that  he  realized  he  had 
not  been  quite  so  lucky  as  he  thought,  for  instead  of 
two  girls  he  now  had  only  one.  He  fancied  that  he 
saw  a  slight  look  of  disappointment  in  Nellie's  face, 
and  he  feared  that  he  had  inadvertently  made  a  blun- 
der in  falling  in  where  he  did. 

' '  If  Vedder  had  wanted  to  ride  with  this  one  ever 
so  much  I  suppose  he  would  have  made  no  move 
toward  doing  so,"  thought  Derringforth,  a  trifle  un- 
comfortable. ' '  This  Southern  courtesy  is  so  exces- 
sively fine  that  I  dare  say  he  wouldn't  utter  a  word 
of  protest  if  I  were  to  tread  on  his  toes. ' ' 

But  Nellie  made  herself  so  agreeable  that  it  was  not 
long  before  Derringforth's  fears  began  to  subside. 
They  would  have  vanished  altogether  but  for  a  move 
that  transferred  him  to  Dorothy's  side.  The  summit 
of  a  high  hill  had  been  reached,  from  which  a  fine 
view  could  be  obtained.  All  stopped  to  look  at  the 
surrounding  country.  When  they  began  the  descent, 
Derringforth  found  himself  beside  Dorothy.  He 
didn't  know  just  how  the  change  came  about,  but  he 
was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  delight  that  he  was  with 
her.  He  felt,  too,  that  he  had  got  out  of  Vedder's 
way,  and  that  in  itself  was  a  satisfaction.  Then  the 
thought  occurred  to  him  that  the  stop  might  have 
been  made  on  Vedder's  suggestion,  with  a  purpose  of 


bringing  about  the  change,  in  so  clever  a  way  that  he 
would  not  suspect  the  other's  aim. 

"This  is  indeed  a  courteous  people,"  he  reflected. 
"  I  like  such  delicacy." 

He  was  partially  right.  The  stop  was  a  diplomatic 
one.  But  it  was  Dorothy's  diplomacy  that  had 
brought  it  about — not  Vedder's.  If  Derringforth  had 
looked  back  he  would  have  seen  a  very  troubled  ex- 
pression on  some  one's  face.  But  he  was  not  look- 
ing back  just  now. 

"  Here  is  a  good  stretch  of  road  ahead,"  said  Dor- 
othy. "  Shall  we  not  have  a  little  dash  ?  " 

She  turned  her  eyes  toward  Derringforth' s.  There 
was  a  something  in  them  that  awakened  an  almost 
forgotten  thrill  in  his  heart. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  should  like  it  immensely,"  he 
replied,  with  an  eagerness  that  made  Dorothy  smile. 

The  horses  were  off  on  the  instant  and  racing  at 
full  speed. 

"  This  is  glorious  sport,"  said  Derringforth,  when 
they  had  reached  the  foot  of  a  hill  and  slowed  down. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  like  it,"  rejoined  Dorothy, 
with  delight  in  her  eyes.  "I  was  afraid  you  would 
find  our  simple  country  life  very  stupid,  but  now  I 
know  how  to  entertain  you." 

"Your  life  here  is  charming,"  declared  Derring- 
forth, "  and  there  is  nothing  I  like  so  much  as  a  dash 
on  a  spirited  horse.  These  two  are  very  evenly 
matched." 

239 


"  They  seem  to  be  today,  but  Billy  is  a  little  the 
faster,  I  think.  You  are,  aren't  you,  Billy?"  she 
added,  appealing  to  the  horse  himself  for  confir- 
mation. 

"  I  think  I  would  be  willing  to  back  Jack  against 
him,"  said  Derringforth. 

"  All  right,"  laughed  Dorothy.  "We  would  like 
nothing  better,  would  we,  Billy  ?  ' ' 

Billy  didn't  make  it  quite  clear  whether  he  relished 
the  idea  of  a  race  or  not,  but  Dorothy  cast  the  de- 
ciding vote,  and  it  was  settled  that  there  should  be  a 
race  between  Billy  and  Jack,  with  the  respective 
riders  that  were  then  up. 

Derringforth  forgot  all  his  business  troubles.  His 
heart  was  as  light  as  that  of  one  who  had  never  known 
a  sorrow. 

"  She  is  very  sweet,"  he  said  to  himself,  stealing 
an  admiring  glance  much  oftener  than  one  of  his 
cynical  tendencies  should.  "I  wonder  why  Vedder 
fancies  the  cousin  ?  She  isn'  t  so  pretty  as  Dorothy — 
hasn't  the  same  charm  of  manner.  But  there  is  no 
accounting  for  tastes.  He  probably  knows  what  suits 
him." 

Derringforth  was  not  quite  sure  on  this  point, 
however,  when  they  reached  the  house.  He  and 
Dorothy  had  dismounted  and  were  standing  on  the 
veranda,  chatting,  when  Vedder  and  Nellie  rode  up. 
There  was  a  considerable  difference  in  the  expression 
of  their  faces.  Nellie's  was  more  than  passively 
240 


happy ;  Vedder's  was  more  than  passively  unhappy. 
Derringforth  was  quick  to  note  this,  for  he  had  ex- 
pected to  see  each  beaming  with  joy.  He  was  puz- 
zled by  the  contrast. 

Vedder  tried  to  appear  light  hearted,  but  his  effort 
was  a  palpable  failure.  There  was  no  spirit  in  his 
words ;  no  buoyancy  in  his  soul.  He  seized  the  first 
opportunity  to  get  away  without  seeming  abruptness, 
and  went  home  in  a  very  gloomy  mood. 

In  the  evening,  Colonel  Rayburn  and  his  wife,  the 
two  girls,  and  Derringforth,  sat  down  to  a  game  of 
hearts.  Dorothy  was  prettily  gowned  in  a  light,  soft 
silk  that  was  especially  becoming.  Derringforth 
found  himself  admiring  her.  She  talked  very  well — 
played  very  well.  Now  that  they  were  side  by  side 
the  contrast  between  her  and  Nellie  was  certainly  in 
her  favor.  He  liked  Dorothy's  blue  eyes  better  than 
the  deep  black  ones  of  her  cousin.  Dorothy's  fea- 
tures, too,  were  rather  more  delicate.  She  resembled 
her  mother. 

"  Some  people,  though,"  he  admitted  to  himself, 
"might  fancy  Nellie's  looks  more.  I  suppose  Ved- 
der does.  But  I  can't  understand  him.  He  was  cer- 
tainly in  the  dumps  when  he  came  home  from  the 
lide." 

It  was  a  jolly  game.     Every  one  was  in  the  best  of 

spirits.     Colonel  Rayburn  called  Derringforth   Phil, 

and  this  made  him  feel  even  more  at  home.     The 

evening  swept  by  and  was  gone.     It  had  been  a  day 

241 


of  life  and  happiness  to  Derringforth.  He  was  sorry 
that  it  was  over,  never  again  to  be  relived.  But 
the  hope  of  another  equally  enjoyable  on  the  mor- 
row gave  sweetness  to  his  sleep. 

The  morning  dawned  as  bright  as  the  one  that  pre- 
ceded it.  Derringforth  went  out  on  the  veranda  before 
breakfast  and  filled  his  lungs  with  the  invigorating 
air. 

"This  is  life,"  he  reflected,  looking  off  over  a 
wide  expanse  of  beautiful  country.  "  This  is  nature 
— not  the  cold,  unyielding  granite  of  the  city.  I 
like  God's  work." 

The  door  opened,  and  he  saw  it  in  its  perfection. 
Dorothy  was  beside  him,  as  fresh  and  pretty  as  a  wild 
flower. 

"  Isn't  this  a  perfect  morning  for  our  race  ?  "  she 
said,  adding  with  mischief  in  her  eyes,  "  I  hope  you 
haven't  weakened." 

"  No,  indeed.  I'm  anxiously  awaiting  the  start," 
he  answered,  delighted  by  her  beauty. 

"You  are  enjoying  the  anticipation  of  victory,  I 
see. ' ' 

"It's  best  to  cling  to  a  sure  thing,"  he  laughed. 
"  Faith  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  but  faith  often  leads  us  such  a  merry  chase 
only  to  disappoint  us  in  the  end." 

"And  that  is  the  way  I  shall  find  it  in  this  race, 
you  think  ?  " 

242 


"  Well,  I  warn  you  I  shall  ride  to  win." 

"  That  is  another  way  of  saying  I  shall  be  beaten. 
All  right.  I  have  great  faith  in  Jack." 

"  You  will  persist,  then,  in  spite  of  my  warning,  in 
enjoying  the  victory  in  fancy?  " 

"Yes." 

"  But  the  disappointment  when  you  are  beaten — 
just  think  of  that. ' ' 

"  No,  I  won't  think  of  that.  I,  too,  shall  ride  to 
win." 

"  I  should  be  annoyed  if  you  did  not.  We  must 
have  a  fair  race." 

At  ten  o'clock  Jack  and  Billy  were  brought  out, 
saddled  for  the  contest.  The  riders  mounted  and 
jogged  along  slowly  to  the  place  selected  for  the  race. 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Rayburn,  and  Vedder  and  Nellie, 
followed  in  a  carriage.  Pedro,  the  coachman,  and 
several  of  the  other  servants  were  early  on  the  scene. 
It  was  a  great  event  with  them  and  many  were  their 
wagers.  But  the  betting  was  by  no  means  confined  to 
the  servants.  The  colonel  backed  Jack,  while  Ved- 
der placed  his  money  on  Dorothy's  horse.  He  had 
recovered  to  some  extent  from  his  depression  of  the 
night  before ;  still  he  was  not  in  a  happy  frame  of 
mind.  The  disturbance  of  his  heart  caused  by  Der- 
ringforth's  sudden  appearance  at  the  Rayburns'  was 
not  so  easily  quieted. 

Derringforth  wagered  a  box  at  the  theater  with 
Dorothy,  including  a  supper  at  Delmonico's.  She 
243 


bet  a  silver  cigar  case.  Nellie  followed  Vedder's  judg- 
ment, while  Mrs.  Rayburn,  as  a  matter  of  courtesy  to 
Derringforth,  bet  on  his  horse. 

"  I  tell  you  that  Jack  will  win,"  said  the  colonel. 
"  I  have  always  said  that  he  had  speed,  and  today 
you  will  see  it." 

The  bets  were  numerous  and  the  interest  at  fever 
heat,  when  the  flag  dropped  and  the  horses  were  off 
like  a  flash.  Each  seemed  to  know  that  something 
more  than  usual  was  expected  of  him — each  imbibed 
the  spirit  of  the  occasion,  and,  responding  to  his  rider's 
words,  tried  to  vanquish  the  other. 

The  start  was  almost  even,  but  at  the  end  of  a  few 
rods  Dorothy  was  in  the  lead.  A  great  shout  went 
up  from  the  winning  side,  but  the  gap  between  the 
riders  was  not  widened.  Jack  was  beginning  to 
attain  a  dangerous  speed.  Billy  heard  the  clatter  of 
his  hoofs,  and  urged  by  Dorothy,  almost  flew  over 
the  ground.  But  the  great  stride  of  the  bigger  horse 
pushed  him  hard.  The  distance  between  them  began 
to  diminish,  and  a  shout  from  the  other  side  now  rent 
the  air. 

A  minute  later,  and  Derringforth  was  beside  Dor- 
othy. The  horses  were  going  like  arrows.  It  was 
neck  and  neck  with  them.  Derringforth  cast  a  quick 
glance  at  Dorothy.  Her  riding  was  perfection. 
Her  face  was  bright  with  hope.  He  felt  that  the 
race  was  his,  but  he  would  a  thousand  times  rather 
she  should  win  it,  and  yet,  remembering  her  words 
244 


of  the  morning,  he  could  not  give  it  away.  He 
would  not  incur  her  displeasure  even  in  the  effort  to 
give  her  a  moment's  happiness.  The  stake  was  but 
a  little  way  ahead.  Derringforth  called  to  Jack  for 
a  final  spurt.  The  response  was  instantaneous.  Der- 
ringforth was  half  a  length  in  the  lead. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  cried  Colonel  Ray  burn,  cheering 
wildly  ;  but  the  great  excitement  was  with  the  colored 
contingent.  A  mighty  shout  went  up  from  those  of 
them  on  the  now  winning  side. 

The  stake  was  but  a  dozen  rods  away.  Derring- 
forth was  increasing  the  gap  between  him  and  Dorothy. 
The  road  swerved  sharply  to  the  right.  Derringforth 
was  riding  to  a  splendid  finish,  when  a  monster  St. 
Bernard  dog  bounded  over  the  fence  on  the  left  with 
a  savage  yelp.  Jack  plunged  suddenly  to  the  right. 
The  girth  parted.  Derringforth  kept  straight  on  for 
an  instant,  and  then  fell  heavily,  the  saddle  beside 
him. 

Dorothy  was  the  first  to  reach  him.  She  bent  over 
him  with  frightened  face.  He  tried  to  get  upon  his 
feet  with  her  aid,  but  he  could  not  stand.  Colonel 
Rayburn  was  soon  upon  the  scene.  Derringforth 
was  placed  tenderly  in  the  carriage  and  taken  home. 


XLIL 

DERRINGFORTH  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  about 
with  a  dazed  expression.  The  fumes  of  ether  were 
still  strong  in  the  room.  The  surgeon  had  just 
finished  his  work.  Colonel  Rayburn  stood  beside 
him,  wearing  an  anxious  look. 

"  Jack  was  going  straight  for  the  stake,"  said  Der- 
ringforth.  "I  didn't  want  to  win,  but  she  would 
have  been  offended  if  I  had  given  her  the  race. 
Something  happened.  I  never  was  thrown  before. 
They  will  think  I  don't  know  how  to  ride.  She  will 
laugh  at  me.  Well,  she  won  the  race  any  way, 
and  I  didn't  pull  Jack,  either.  But  I  can't  see 
why  I  was  thrown.  It  wasn't  the  dog — no,  it  wasn't 
the  dog.  Something  did  happen." 

There  was  a  touch  of  pathos  in  his  struggle,  half 
conscious  as  he  was,  to  account  for  his  fall. 

"It  was  not  your  fault,"  said  Colonel  Rayburn. 

Derringforth  looked  up  quickly.  Reason  began 
to  assert  itself. 

"  Not  my  fault?  "  he  repeated  eagerly. 

"  No,  not  your  fault,  but  the  fault  of  the  saddle." 
246 


"The  saddle?" 

"Yes,  the  girth  broke." 

An  expression  of  contentment  came  into  Derring- 
forth's  eyes. 

"I  knew  something  happened,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  believe  that  I  was  thrown  like  a  novice. " 
Then,  turning  to  the  surgeon,  he  asked  :  "Is  my  leg 
really  broken,  doctor?  " 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  a  pretty  good  fracture  ;  both  bones 
broken  just  above  the  ankle. ' ' 

That  expression  of  contentment  changed  suddenly. 
Derringforth  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  He  brought 
his  hand  up  to  his  eyes.  His  brow  was  knit  in 
thought. 

"You  will  be  as  good  as  new  again  in  a  few 
weeks,"  continued  the  doctor  in  an  encouraging 
tone. 

"  A  few  weeks  ?  "  repeated  Derringforth. 

"Yes,  you  could  hardly  expect  the  bones  to  heal 
in  less  time." 

"  Can  I  go  back  to  New  York  with  Colonel  Ray- 
burn  ?  ' ' 

"  Not  for  the  world." 

"  But  I  must  be  there.     It  is  imperative." 

"  Nothing  is  imperative  with  you  now,  young  man, 
except  to  get  back  the  use  of  your  leg. ' ' 

Derringforth  raised  his  eyes  to  Colonel  Rayburn  in 
mute  appeal. 

"Don't  worry  about  your  affairs  in  New  York," 

247 


said  the  colonel.  "I  will  look  after  your  interests 
there  for  you,  and  the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Rayburn  will 
look  after  your  comfort  here.  Dorothy  and  Nellie 
will  entertain  you,  and  the  time  of  your  imprisonment 
will  slip  by  before  you  know  it." 

Forced  to  face  the  inevitable,  Derringforth  did  it 
graciously.  It  was  useless  for  him  to  think  of  his 
business  affairs,  or  to  worry  about  anything.  There 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  content  himself  and 
let  nature  do  the  rest.  The  tension  of  his  nerves  re- 
laxed, and  he  found  a  sense  of  dreamy  luxury  in  his 
enforced  idleness.  The  days  swept  by.  The  past 
seemed  a  century  away.  He  was  in  a  new  world,  with 
new  thoughts,  new  impulses,  new  realities. 

But  one  day  that  past  was  brought  vividly  to  his 
mind.  The  morning  mail  had  just  arrived.  Doro- 
thy ran  quickly  to  Derringforth  with  the  New  York 
papers.  She  never  tired  of  doing  for  his  pleasure. 
Her  coming  always  sent  a  smile  of  glad  welcome  to 
his  face. 

' '  You  will  make  me  wish  these  broken  bones 
would  never  heal,"  he  said,  looking  into  her  eyes  as 
he  reached  his  hand  out  for  the  papers. 

"  Oh,  you  wicked  man  !  "  replied  Dorothy,  with  a 
gesture  of  protest.  "  Just  think  what  you  have  said." 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  and  that  is  why  I  spoke  as 
I  did." 

"  Dreaming,  I  fancy.     I  must  have  wakened  you 
when  I  came  in.     I  am  so  sorry." 
248 


"Your  fancy  is  wrong  this  time,  though  I  must 
admit  it  is  usually  right." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I'm  afraid  it  is  very 
erratic. ' ' 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  have  reason  to  remem- 
ber the  accuracy  with  which  it  hit  the  mark  once, 
any  way.  You  recollect  what  you  said  the  morning 
before  our  race,  when  we  were  standing  on  the  ve- 
randa ?  ' ' 

"  But  I  would  have  been  wrong  had  there  been  no 
accident." 

"  '  Buts '  don't  go.  You  were  in  at  the  finish,  and 
I — well,  you  know  where  I  was." 

"  That  isn't  fair  to  yourself;  and  besides,  you 
wanted  me  to  win  the  race." 

"  I  wan  ted  you  to  win  it  ?"  exclaimed  Derring- 
forth,  with  a  quick  look  of  surprise. 

"  Now  be  honest ;  didn't  you  ?  "  said  Dorothy. 

"  Why  in  the  world  do  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  " 
returned  Derringforth,  a  slight  flush  tingeing  his 
cheeks. 

"  Ah,  you  did,  didn't  you  ?  "  she  laughed. 

She  said  this  in  a  way  that  made  Derringforth  feel 
like  admitting  almost  anything,  but  he  dodged  the 
question  nevertheless. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  not  charge  me  with  being 
thrown  purposely,  so  that  you  should  win  the  race?  " 
he  returned. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  certainly  would  have  resorted  to 
249 


some  cleverer  scheme  than  that,  had  you  dared  to  let 
me  win." 

"  Had  I  dared  to  let  you  win  ?  Why  shouldn't  I 
have  dared  to  ?  " 

"  Because  you  were  afraid  of  offending  me." 

A  deeper  shade  passed  over  Derringforth's  face. 
Dorothy  laughed  at  his  perplexity. 

"You  didn't  know  I  could  read  your  thoughts  so 
perfectly,"  she  said. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  must  stop  thinking." 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that.  It  is  such  fun  for  me  to  read 
your  thoughts." 

" I  don't  believe  you  can  read  them  all." 

"  Haven't  I  given  you  convincing  evidence  of  my 
powers  ? ' ' 

' '  You  simply  chanced  the  statement.  But  I  haven' t 
admitted  that  I  didn't  dare  let  you  win." 

"  You  might  as  well,  though — you  know  it  is  so." 

"By  what  process  of  reasoning  did  you  arrive  at 
this  conclusion  ?  ' ' 

"Ah,  don't  you  wish  you  knew?  " 

"  Yes,  won't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  will  promise  not  to  wish  any  more 
such  wicked  wishes  as  you  did  just  now. ' ' 

"I'll  promise,  but  really  I  did  not  wish  that.  I 
simply  felt  that  there  was  more  happiness  here  with  a 
broken  leg  than  anywhere  else  in  perfect  condition." 

Dorothy's  cheeks  flushed  now.  The  slight  embar- 
rassment only  added  to  her  beauty.  Derringforth 
250 


felt  his  heart  beat  faster.  There  was  a  minute's  si- 
lence, broken  by  Nellie,  who  ran  in  to  say  that  Mr. 
Vedder  had  just  come,  and  that  they  were  waiting  for 
Dorothy  to  join  them  at  tennis. 

"Oh,  has  he  come?"  said  Dorothy.  "I  will  be 
right  out." 

Nellie  had  already  gone.  There  was  a  look  in 
Dorothy's  eyes  as  they  met  Derringforth's  that  seemed 
to  say  :  "I  would  a  thousand  times  rather  stay  here 
with  you." 

"  I  wish  I  could  go  out  with  you  and  take  a  hand 
in  the  game,"  said  Derringforth  softly. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  could,"  returned  Dorothy. 
There  was  infinite  meaning  in  these  words  as  she 
spoke  them. 

"  I  hope  you  will  win,"  added  Derringforth,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation.  His  voice  was  hardly  natural. 

"  Now  you  see  the  disadvantage  of  having  a  broken 
leg,"  said  Dorothy,  not  heeding  his  last  remark. 

"Every  phase  and  condition  of  life  has  its  disad- 
vantages as  well  as  advantages. ' ' 

"  You  are  very  patient." 

"  You  credit  me  with  a  virtue  that  I  fear  I  do  not 
possess.  It  is  my  good  fortune  in  being  with  such 
friends  that  contents  me." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  not  just  to  yourself." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am.  If  I  were  in  some  places,  now, 
flat  on  my  back,  as  I  am  here,  I  should  simply  rave 
against  heaven  and  earth." 


"Oh,  you  must  not  say  that.  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  your  raving  against  heaven.  It  is  dreadful." 

"Pardon  me,  little  girl,"  returned  Derringforth. 
"  I  am  sorry  my  thoughtless  words  pain  you." 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  addressed  her  in  so 
familiar  a  manner.  He  did  not  do  it  intentionally. , 
He  was  sorry  the  minute  the  words  were  uttered,  but 
he  had  no  need  to  be.  The  slip  of  the  tongue,  al- 
though it  brought  a  flush  to  Dorothy's  face,  seemed 
to  add  sweetness  to  the  tone  in  which  she  said :  "I 
really  must  go — they  will  not  forgive  me  if  I  keep 
them  waiting  so  long." 

"  Their  loss  is  my  gain,"  said  Derringforth.  "  You 
see  I  am  selfish  in  keeping  you  from  them." 

"  I  am  the  selfish  one  in  keeping  you  from  your 
papers,"  answered  Dorothy,  and  before  Derringforth 
had  time  to  protest  she  was  gone. 

But  Derringforth  was  in  no  mood  for  reading  just 
now.  He  pushed  the  papers  away  from  him,  and 
stretched  his  arms  above  his  head  and  looked  idly 
toward  the  ceiling. 

"  Is  this  all  a  dream?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  Is 
this  home  nothing  but  a  shadowy  vision  ?  Is  Dor- 
othy merely  a  delightful  creation  of  fancy  ?  ' ' 

He  lay  there  and  reflected  for  a  long  time  over  the 
events  of  the  last  ten  days.  They  were  startlingly 
dramatic.  He  could  hardly  bring  himself  to  believe 
they  were  real,  and  yet  was  there  not  the  pain  of 
knitting  bones  as  evidence  of  his  accident  ?  The 
252 


scenes  had  changed  swiftly.  A  single  stroke,  and  he 
was  hurled  from  the  eminence  of  the  millionaire  to 
the  jagged  rocks  of  bankruptcy. 

But  for  this  crash  he  might  never  have  visited  the 
Rayburns — might  never  have  known  the  charm  of 
Dorothy's  smile — might  never  again  have  seen  that 
sweet  side  of  life  to  which  his  cynicism  had  blinded 
him. 

"  Does  everything  come  by  chance  in  this  world," 
he  reflected,  "or  is  there  something  just  beyond  the 
range  of  vision  that  shapes  our  lives  ?  ' ' 

When  he  had  wearied  of  thinking,  he  turned  to  his 
papers.  He  looked  over  the  market  reports  and  read 
the  meager  news.  He  ran  his  eyes  over  the  dramatic 
notes  and  carelessly  scanned  the  social  happenings. 
Suddenly  he  came  across  a  name  that  sent  a  thrill 
through  him.  It  was  Marion's.  He  read  eagerly. 

"  Burton  Edwards,  a  young  Californian,  and  Miss 
Kingsley,  led  the  german,"  continued  the  item. 
"  They  were  a  strikingly  handsome  couple.  Miss 
Kingsley  never  looked  prettier.  Her  gown  was  a 
fine  specimen  of  Parisian  art." 

This  was  the  first  intimation  Derringforth  had  had 
that  Marion  was  in  America. 

"  She  may  have  been  at  home  for  months,  for  aught 
I  know,"  he  said  to  himself  bitterly.  "  I  should 
never  have  known  of  her  return  but  for  the  news- 
papers. And  Edwards  !  Edwards  is  with  her." 

A  frown  flashed  to  Derringforth's  face. 
253 


"  It  is  evident,"  he  continued,  with  a  curl  of  the 
lip,  "  that  she  keeps  Edwards  informed  of  her  where- 
abouts. ' ' 

This  thought  seemed  to  rankle  within  him.  The 
past  came  surging  back  with  startling  vividness.  He 
tried  to  shut  his  eyes  to  it,  but  this  time  his  will 
failed  him. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000025745     1 


